Death, In Glory
by Apocalypso-33
Summary: Crossover with 300: The Movie. AU Time is a fragile dimension, and mixing magic with it has severe repercussions more often than not. What does the future hold for Harry, raised in ancient Sparta, then thrust back into the Future? Eventual Honks
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The _whoosh_ of the wind rustling the trees added a peaceful background noise to the pleasant setting. The fire crackled merrily, each hiss and pop interspersed with the giggles of the infant child. Lily smiled down at the child in its cradle, the deep look of love in her eyes accompanied by the sparkle of happiness caused by her child's laughter.

In the secure grasp of her hand was a slim silver chain, wound around the soft flesh twice. The interlocking links of the chain streamed down, glinting in the fading evening light on one side, but hued a vibrant orange from the reflection of the fire on the other side. At the end of the simple chain hung a pocket watch, similarly plain in all ways. It had belonged to her father, and her grandfather before him, a trusty family heirloom which had always kept time well, regardless of whether it was wound or not. This little facet of the watch's 'personality' had always baffled the Evans family, until Lily Evans went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in a world where occurrences such as these were explained away with the ease of a simple wave of one's wand.

The watch was perfectly circular, and small enough that it hardly eclipsed the hand of her child as he happily batted at it with his pudgy-fingered hands. The back was silver, engraved simply with concentric circles that shined brighter than the more muted silver of the un-engraved parts. The face, too, was simple … the background a pure white, with two thin black hands pointing the correct time. The hour marks were made of the same silver, a short rectangular piece indicating each of the twelve hours, and four dots of ink between the rectangular jewels to show the minutes. Upon the white background was a beautifully inked signature, the flawless calligraphy spelling '_Leandros_'. Below it, in the same flawless calligraphy, was the word _"Sparta," _wrapped around a tiny purple jewel. The last masterpiece of a Greek watchmaker who had, with his last breath, feverishly pressed the watch into the hand of her Grandfather, then died.

Harry batted at the watch, giggling happily as he made contact, the watch swinging through the air above his head. Laid in his cot and dressed in a set of white pajamas, he bounced about happily, tiring himself to the point of sleeping. Lily smiled, half in happiness at her child's obvious pleasure, and half in relief. Harry had woken up bawling an hour ago, and it had taken until now to get the child back into a resting position. Now she simply sat there, playing with her only child and giggling along with Harry as he amused himself.

Surprisingly, his next swing was a little too successful, for his chubby little fingers wrapped around the top of the watch, the momentum causing it to be tugged away from her. The chain, rather than give way, simply unfurled from its position around her hand, sliding off so smoothly that it felt like cloth, rather than metal, against her skin. Giggling and gurgling happily now that he had claimed his prize, Harry rolled onto his side, tucking the watch under the covers with him. When Lily tried to extricate it from his grasp, he began giggling again, shielding it from her view by rolling on top of it and dancing away from her hand whenever she tried to retrieve it.

She smiled serenely, lifting him out of the cot and holding him in the air. "Harry," she said softly, "you want to give the watch back to Mummy?"

He squealed laughingly, grasping onto it with surprising strength, enough so that it would be a struggle to extricate it from his grasp. She gave up, sighing despite the small smile playing about her lips. "Okay, sweetie," she cooed, "you can keep it. But you keep it safe, you hear me? That's really special, okay?"

Unbeknownst to her, with that simple decision, she had just saved her son's life.

Noticing that she wasn't trying to take it from him anymore, he giggled again, his open mouth revealing pink gums and tiny white teeth in their first stages of growing. She smoothed his hair down, planting a purposely wet kiss on his forehead, and set him back down on the cot. He held the watch closely to his chest, eyes slowly closing shut. She gently pulled the blanket up to his chin, and sat back in her chair as he drifted off to sleep. Within minutes, as he had tired himself out by playing around for an hour, his breath grew even. The look of utter tranquility on his face made her smile wanly, and she gently ran a finger down his face. She debated removing the watch from his grasp, but seeing the expression of peace on his face, she decided against it. A simple wave of her wand would undo any damage to it…and someday, it would belong to him anyway.

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist gently, and she felt a chin on her shoulder. Living under the Fidelius Charm for over a year had long worn away any jumpiness, so the lack of noise in his approach and the sudden touch was not surprising enough to startle her. She smiled, feeling James' cheek against her own, his bristly stubble brushing against the hairless, soft skin on her face.

"He looks so calm," James said, squeezing his arms around her slightly, "did it take a long time?"

She shook her head, placing her hands on top of his, but making no movement to pull them away. "He was pretty energetic today," she whispered, "but he's the most darling little thing I could possibly imagine."

He smiled, and she could feel it as his facial muscles moved against her cheek. Then his right hand slid over her abdomen, pressing gently against her lower belly, and she turned slightly to look at him, an inquisitive look on her face.

He spoke, his voice slightly hoarse, and a glint in his eye that promised happiness. "You know," he said slowly, "we could always have another."

"Anoth- what?!" she squeaked, now turning to face him, her voice unnaturally high. "Another baby, James? You- what… yes!" she gushed excitedly, doing her best to keep her voice down as he baby slept.

He grinned roguishly at her in response, and gathered her into a hug, lifting her off the ground easily. "I knew you wanted another kid, sweetheart." She blushed, making him laugh. "Tomorrow," he promised, "I'll get Sirius to come here and baby sit Harry, he loves 'teachin' yer sprog howta do magic'."

She giggled, and planted a kiss on his lips, making him grin even wider. "I, on the other hand, will get two things tomorrow. First, a fertility potion for you and a few energy potions for myself," he said, waggling his eyebrows and making Lily blush, "and second, a hotel reservation at a nice Muggle place, and we'll spend the whole day uh… doing-"

She glared at him, cutting him off, and in a low, dangerous voice, muttered "You had better not say 'doing it', James Nathaniel Potter." Then she winked at him, and in a husky voice, continued, "What we'll be doing, darling, is called 'making love'. Many times." He laughed, and ignoring her muted squeal, reached down and lifted her into the air as if they were newlyweds, then carried her down the stairs, laughing all the way. Miraculously, Harry remained asleep, something they were extremely thankful for.

They sat in the living room for a long time, with James laying his head in Lily's lap, her fingers playing with his hair as they talked about inconsequential things, then moved on to the state of the war. Two empty glasses of wine sat on the short table in front of them.

Lily sighed happily. "It's so calm," she whispered, hearing a grunt of assent from James, "I love it here."

As if those words had been a harbinger of misfortune, the door suddenly shattered inwards, covering the small hallway that led into the house with splinters. They scrambled to their feet in shock, fear etched across their expressions as they drew their wands.

From the haze of dust that had billowed in emerged a haunting figure with glowing red eyes. A single word fell from James' lips, and it was enough to describe the gravity of their situation.

"_Voldemort."_

His laughter echoed strangely in the confines of the room. He stood there, still for a moment, then lifted his wand from its position next to his thigh, his spidery hands grasping the stick of wood gently. Immediately the two Potters sprang into action, Lily sprinting for the stairs as James flung a flurry of curses at Voldemort. The Dark Lord simply waved his wand, sending the curses on a new tangent, where they struck the walls, leaving burn marks. Another wave of his wand caused both parents to be lifted off their feet and flung painfully against another wall, shackles emerging to restrain them. The Dark Lord cocked his head slightly, and the shackles tightened painfully on their wrists, causing them to involuntarily relax their wand arms, and thereby surrender their wands to the gentle embrace of the rug below them.

He laughed, even as the two Potters desperately fought the chains that held them. "So naïve," he whispered, "so… _painfully_ naïve."

Red in the face, James swore loudly, the situation so tragic that Lily couldn't even summon the muster to scold him for his language. _"Peter!"_ Lily hissed angrily, condemning the traitor.

"Yessss," the Dark Lord whispered, his voice somehow booming despite the uncharacteristically soft way in which he had enunciated the words. "Peter," he agreed cruelly, smirking at their devastated expressions. "So foolish of you to trust one who only seeks the company of those more powerful than himself. So _naïve_ of you to even _imagine_", he snapped, "that even one such as him would neglect to acknowledge the one Wizard on Earth who has no peer."

His self satisfied expression never left his face. Even as Lily opened her mouth to scream at him, to scream her frustration, he silenced her with a simple look of disdain. "It is not you who I have come here for, as you well know. Mudblood and Blood Traitor … I should expunge your very _existence_ from this world. But I will not… I will take that which I have come here to take, namely the life of your spawn." He spat the last word with fury, flecks of spittle emerging from his mouth.

"No," Lily wept, pleading with him, "please have mercy, I beg you! He is just a child, just an _infant_! He cannot possibly harm you!"

Voldemort simply sneered. "Do not insult my intelligence, Mudblood!" he snapped, turning towards the stairs. "In a few hours, those chains will wear away, and you will be free to acknowledge the truth of my triumph over your son, _supposed_ defeater of the Dark Lord that he is. I leave you alive for my own amusement … I leave Wormtail to you, too. May you enjoy his service, for I certainly shall not." He laughed hysterically, climbing the stairs. From below, he could hear them screaming at him, _begging_ for his mercy … but it accomplished naught but to bring a smile to his twisted face.

He stepped onto the landing, immediately heading towards the door right at the end, having found the location of the child from its parents' minds. He entered quietly this time, pushing the partially open door away with the toe of his shoe, and walked in.

Inside the room, the baby was crying, no doubt having heard the commotion downstairs. He moved to the edge of the cot and peered at the child, sizing up his 'adversary' with amusement. _This_ was to be his downfall? This child, born to _Gryffindors_, who would grow up in a house full of laughter, then spend seven cursory years at Hogwarts, having learnt little more than a shielding charm? He scoffed at the idea, smirking widely.

"Goodbye, little one," he whispered, the malice in his eyes visible even in the Dark Lord's reflection in the child's vibrantly green eyes. It seemed fitting to him that a child bearing such unique, stunning eyes would die by a curse of the same color, the same unforgiving tenacity.

"_Avada Kedavra,"_ he incanted, pointing his wand at the boy's forehead. The green light buckled out of his wand tip, racing towards the boy's face. Almost in slow motion, the boy's eyes widened, now completely uncovering the brilliance of his eyes … and his right hand rose to shield his face. In the palm of his hand, grasped tightly in the infant's fingers, was a watch with a silver casing and a white background, upon which two thin hands indicated the time.

The beam from the Dark Lord's wand was slightly larger in diameter than a cricket ball … a testament to his power, and now, to his misfortune. Half the beam struck the boy's forehead, a few inches above his right eye, and the other half struck the watch. For a second, everything was still. Then, a ripple of the same green light danced across the infant's pupils, and across the glossy face of the watch. A second later, the room erupted with a flash of white light, streaks of gold reaching out from the boy's body to wreak havoc within a ten foot radius of the child. Through the supernova-like explosion of light that overwhelmed the room, an observer would have seen a beam of emerald green light, about the size of a cricket ball in diameter, strike the Dark Lord Voldemort in the center of his chest.

The light grew, eclipsing everything in the room with its brightness … then suddenly died away. All that remained were the charred remains of the Dark Lord, and the undamaged cot, the rest of the room letting off smoke from the intensity of the heat caused by the foreign magic.

One hour and fifty six minutes later, the room was filled with the sound of a woman crying as Lily sobbed in pain, held in James' arms. Tears rolled down their cheeks as they wept unashamedly, mourning the loss of their son to the vile magics that Voldemort commanded.

(Scene break)

With a flash of the same white light that had nearly destroyed the child's room, Harry James Potter reappeared, nearly two thousand five hundred years in the past. Lying on the ground in the bitter cold, the child cried loudly, knowing that he had lost something.

The snow drifted down slowly, each flake sending a shiver through the child's small body. In the distance a wolf howled, but the howl was abruptly silenced. Harry continued to cry, the sound growing louder and louder. Soon, footsteps were heard, as well as the sound of something massive being dragged through the snow. The infant was lifted off the ground, and almost immediately, the child stopped weeping, simply sniffing loudly and staring at the stranger in curiosity.

The one who had found the child was young … only seventeen years of age. He was garbed in nothing but a simple loin cloth around his waist, looping under his crotch and tied securely behind him. He was strong, muscles rippling in the cold of the night, yet bore the unmistakable look of a boy … not yet a man.

"_Hello, young one,"_ the boy spoke, the language something that little Harry was not accustomed to, _"from whence did you come?"_

He peered at the child, noting the regal features immediately. Above the infant's right eyebrow was a slightly deep cut in the shape of a lightening bolt, the injury matting the hair with blood. The young man's eyes widened at the sight, immediately interpreting the cut as a sign from the gods. Zeus himself had marked this child … with such a countenance, such eyes and such a defining endorsement given by the gods themselves, this was an obvious message. He gathered some snow in his spare hand, using it to wash the wound as the snow melted. His finger brushed against the boy's cut, and he pulled it away with a start, having heard a roaring _whoosh_ of sound, followed by an explosion of green light in his mind's eye. Fearlessly, the young man gazed at the child for a few seconds, having made his decision.

"_Leandros,"_ he whispered, _"you shall be a lion of a man some day."_

Silently, Harry continued staring at the boy, oblivious to the cold even as his body shook.

"_Wait here,"_ the boy said, setting him down on a dry rock. He stepped away for a minute, and Harry began to panic again, but returned a second later, again dragging something. Harry watched in awe, but with no apparent fear as the older boy dropped the body of a truly _massive _wolf on the ground, setting his staff on the ground next to him. Using a small knife, perhaps a few inches long, the boy began skinning the beast with quick, experienced strokes. Within ten minutes, the boy had removed the beast's skin entirely, leaving a bleeding hunk of flesh and bone on the ground. He opened the skin and draped it on the snow with the fur facing the night sky, and dragged it around for a few minutes, leaving bright red streaks of blood behind.

Once he deemed it clean enough, he lifted Harry again, and wrapped the skin around him, smiling slightly as he saw Harry snuggle into its warmth and relax. He spared but one curious glance for the silver trinket in Harry's hand, then tucked it into the makeshift wrapping with Harry. Lifting the bundled child and holding him securely to his broad chest, the young man bent down again and retrieved his staff. With quick, purposeful steps, he began walking into the night, holding Harry tightly.

"_My name is Leonidas,"_ the boy said, his voice solemn. Harry, too cold to really care, simply gurgled once, then fell asleep. Leonidas smiled slightly, and kept walking.

When Harry awoke, the next day, it was to the low beat of large drums. He peered around inquisitively, and saw that the boy holding him was now walking through a beautiful city. All around them, people looked upon them solemnly, and knelt as they passed, inclining their heads down. Presently, the number of townspeople dwindled away, and the few people that Harry now saw were garbed in helmets and cloaks, grasping massive shields in one hand and large spears in the other.

The boy holding him walked through an archway, then stopped. A horn sounded, making Harry grimace as the sound assaulted his ears.

The boy stood taller now, squaring his shoulders and no longer moving. Looking around, Harry saw between ten and twenty people standing, then saw them kneel gracefully. _"All hail King Leonidas," _one announced, kneeling before the boy and holding a fist above his heart. Harry peered around curiously, then made an exclamation of surprise as he was lifted high into the air.

"_Spartans,"_ Leonidas spoke, _"I found this child during my trials. The child impresses me … he shows no fear even at his tender age. As I skinned the wolf, there was not a drop of fear in his eyes. He shall be raised as a Spartan… I have a feeling that this child is extremely important. He shall be a Ward of the Royal Family, raised in the Spartan way and taught to lead."_

The man kneeling just a few feet in front of the boy holding Harry nodded. _"It shall be as you say, my King."_

Hours later, at the edge of a jagged cliff, the boy was held aloft by a Priest, examined from every angle. If he had been small or sickly, puny or misshapen, he would have been discarded like thousands before him, thrown from the cliff to land violently among the shattered skeletons at the bottom. Above the child, carrion already screeched, as if in preparation for a possible morsel of food. A glint in the Priest's eye was the decision, as Harry was handed to the safety of the King's grasp.

(Scene break)

And so it was, that Harry James Potter, the Savior of the Light and Chosen of Prophecy was raised as a Spartan and inducted as a member of the Royal Family of Sparta.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Sparta, 496 BC_

"Well?!" Leonidas demanded, "What're you waiting for? Attack again!"

Chastised, and bearing a quickly purpling left eye, six year old Leandros charged again. As Leonidas moved to grapple at the youngster's swinging right fist, Leandros quickly traded his balance for the advantage, awkwardly kicking out with his left foot and striking Leonidas in the side of his thigh. The blow was enough to make Leonidas falter slightly, but due to Leandros' size, the worst that it caused was for the King of Sparta to stumble merely half a step to the side. Leandros, on the other hand, fell flat on his face, a victim of his own misfortune. He had overestimated the damage he could cause with that kick, hoping that he would have enough time to regain his footing and attack again.

A foot landed on his upper back, pressing down painfully and sending the boy's face further into the mud. He groaned, tasting the filth on his lips, then growled.

"Forfeit?" Leonidas asked challengingly, pressing down a little harder. Leandros' response was to groan in pain, but rapidly shift his body, causing Leonidas' foot to slip off to the side. The price paid for such a maneuver was the lance of pain that made the boy cry out as the motion of the King's foot first dragged, then pinched the skin of the boy's back harshly. Partially turning, the boy tried his hardest, sending his foot rocketing upwards to strike at Leonidas.

"Never!" his voice rang, the high pitch of his child's voice echoing in the small courtyard. Unfortunately for Leonidas, the lad's foot found a home in his upper thigh. The King barely had time to marvel at his luck, having evaded possibly permanent damage to the future of the Royal line, before Leandros was on his feet again swinging his fists with renewed vigor. The blow to his inner thigh had not hurt in the slightest, but the muscles somehow faltered, making the King loose his footing for a second. Leonidas continued to deflect the blows with inordinate ease, but even as Leandros, scowling, continued his fruitless pummeling of the King's palms, a proud smile had made its way onto Leonidas' bearded face. The boy truly had the heart of a lion, holding his head high even in the face of pain and defeat.

Leandros, now breathing heavily, was furious with himself. His King was tiring him out, and fool that he was, he was allowing it to happen! Frustrated, he let out an animalistic growl, and faked the next punch, grimly satisfied that Leonidas' attempt to block it had sent his arm out of the way. Bellowing, Leandros charged forward, ramming his forehead into the King's muscular midsection, knowing to aim generally between the rippling muscles for the best effect. While small, there would be enough surprise at the pain caused by the blow for Leandros to at least make some headway.

Leonidas let out a startled exclamation, half furious at being outwitted, and half prideful in having taught the boy well. The blow to his abdomen, while initially well aimed, had not accounted for the movement of his body due to the overextended arm which was _supposed_ to have deflected the boy's punch. The pain was minimal at best, but it had served its purpose, giving Leandros that extra fraction of a second in which to make his move. Rather than continue to swing fruitlessly, the lad tackled his right leg, wrapping his arms around the thigh, then slipped downwards and dug his fingers into the back of the King's knee. Leonidas' knee buckled, causing him to fall to one knee.

The lad pulled back about two paces, and furious at the action, Leonidas shouted "Press your advantage, you fool!" Immediately the boy darted forward again, jumping towards Leonidas with one knee flying towards the King's face. Eyes widening at the tactic, Leonidas quickly dropped sideways to the ground, the lad's knee passing his face almost in slow motion, then speeding up drastically as the rest of his body followed through. The King's face now bore a proud grin, and he rose quickly to his feet. Having overshot his target, Leandros' momentum carried him a few feet forward, after which he whirled around, sprinting back to continue fighting. His charge, however, was quelled easily, as Leonidas extended an arm, and by placing his palm on the lad's forehead, held him just out of striking range. The lad continued to fight, making Leonidas laugh uproariously.

"Stop, lad," the King said, and Leandros complied immediately, ceasing his actions and standing completely upright. Even at his tender age, the lad already showed signs of forming muscles, and a broad chest that hinted at the fact that he would be an impressive male specimen someday. The boy was looking him in the eye fearlessly … well, as best as he could with one eye swollen shut. Thus it was somewhat humorous when Leonidas swung his fist in a perfect uppercut, striking the boy square under the jaw and lifting him clean off his feet. The boy hissed in pain, but refused to scream, falling in a heap on the ground a few feet away.

"Always be prepared," the King said quietly. Leandros, furious, calmed himself at hearing the King's tone. "There are those who would approach you under pretences of peace, only to stab you in the back as you embrace them."

Leandros stood, then nodded curtly, none too happy about the strike. He could already feel the stinging pain of a bruise forming under his chin, and through experience, he knew that talking would be a chore in the coming few days.

"Now," Leonidas said, settling himself on the balls of his feet, "attack again."

Leandros growled, charging forward as fast as he could go. Mid-step, the growl turned into a full-blown shout, and Leandros threw himself forward, ducking his head down and leading with his right shoulder. With an almighty crash, he landed flat on the ground, as Leonidas had simply stepped out of the way. Scowling furiously, Leandros attempted to stand up, only to have Leonidas pin his body to the ground by laying the toes of his foot on one side of the boy's body, and his knee on the other, pinning Leandros' midsection with his lower leg, his shin squashing the child into the dirt.

"Forfeit." This time, it wasn't a question, it was a demand.

Struggling to throw the King off him, he refused to give in, refused to say the one word that would end it. Instead, he continued to fight, continued to try and force Leonidas' considerable weight off his small body, but to no avail. His frustration began to give way to anger, and he made the mistake of looking at Leonidas' face. The Spartan King looked amused at young Leandros' attempts to push him off, and this set the boy off. With a shout of anger and a sudden flash in his eyes, Leandros successfully threw Leonidas off him.

Ten feet away.

The Spartan king landed in a heap, the mud making a _squelch_ of noise as his body sank into it. A few seconds later, looking only slightly worse for wear, he stood, facing Leandros with his mouth hanging open in shock. His stare was mirrored by the one adorning his ward's face. The child clearly had no clue what he had just accomplished, but was gobsmacked by what he had done. There was a stretch of silence as the two stared at each other. Leandros saw some emotion bubbling up in the King's eyes, and he flinched slightly, wondering what the repercussions would be.

Then Leonidas began laughing, a booming sound that echoed in the courtyard. Leandros chuckled nervously, not really knowing what was so funny. The King walked up to him, and placing one heavy hand on his shoulder, led him away, still laughing.

"One of those, are you?" the King questioned, an amused smile on his face, "Haven't had one of your kind in a while, I think… you'll be a welcome addition to the Hoplites someday. Very well. We'll have to see to getting you trained to use your magics, then."

Turning, for he had sensed Leandros stop walking, he was met with the child's gobsmacked expression. Then a nasty gleam entered the child's eyes, and he grinned. "_Magic?"_ be boy asked, looking almost feral in his anticipation.

The King smirked. "Magic," he agreed, cuffing the boy's head gently, and leading him away.

* * *

He was excited, to say the least. Bubbling on the inside, yet placid, almost _bored_ on the outside, he waited outside the house of his teacher. He stood next to the wall, and realizing that his wait would be long, decided to make himself more comfortable. He leaned his shoulder against the rough surface of the wall, and crossed his left leg behind his right leg. A few feet away from him stood another boy, apparently one who he would learn Magic with. Leandros, somewhat confused as he had thought that magic-people were extremely rare, nevertheless appraised him out of the corner of his eye, while trying to appear aloof and disinterested. In this endeavor, he was hopelessly failing, his eyes flickering over to the lad every second. 

The boy, like him, had black hair, though his was thick and ropy, falling down to his shoulders. It was parted in the middle, giving him an almost womanly look as it framed his face and fell in his eyes.

Boldly, the boy nodded at him appraisingly. "Astinos," the boy said, sufficiently introducing himself.

Leandros raised an eyebrow. "The Captain's son?" he asked, looking interested. The other boy inclined his head in agreement.

The Captain, Dienekes, was simply known by his rank these days. He was a formidable warrior, hot-headed and fiery in battle, yet level-headed and calculating in command… and one of Leonidas' most trusted friends. Leandros had encountered the man a few times, but had not actually spoken to him.

"Leandros," he said, introducing himself. The other boy nodded, once again falling silent and turning his attention to the wall. The boy looked alright, Leandros supposed, and he didn't act obnoxious, so … "Good to meet you," Leandros said, almost two full minutes after the last words had been spoken. Internally, Leandros groaned at the stupid way in which he had said it.

The other boy looked at him oddly for a second, then burst into laughter, and took Leandros's proffered hand, clasping his hand around the wrist as Leandros did the same. "Well met," he said, snorting. Leandros grinned sheepishly in return, leaning back against the wall.

"What's this magic about, then?" Astinos questioned, looking quite curious. Leandros, about to reply with all the meager knowledge that he possessed, was cut short when a man stalked out of the house.

"You two," the man said, "you are the students? Here to learn the arts of magic?" The two children nodded, both cautious and eager. The man seemed … odd. His voice, for one, was both soft and loud, like a whisper that boomed in the air. It had an oddly musical quality about it, ensnaring their minds and capturing their attention immediately. He was tall and well built, like all Spartan men, with dark eyes and light brown hair that fell down his back. Yet, unlike the Spartan men that Leandros knew, the man's skin was extremely pale, as if he had not spent time in the sun during the course of his life.

"I am Orestes," he said, almost as if he were reminding himself. He seemed old, close to 60 years of age, Leandros thought, but possessed some sort of quality that made it seem as if he had endured centuries. "Come inside," Orestes muttered, cutting Leandros' thoughts short, "we should begin immediately. Since I must share your time with the _Agoge_, there shall not be a moment of rest for you between magic and your Spartan training."

The next hour passed almost like a dream for Leandros and Astinos, as Orestes conducted a variety of tests on them, waving his hands and his staff at them, seeing something, and agreeing with himself in murmurs. He seemed vague, not only in thought, as he muttered to himself and nodded sporadically, but also in action, whirling about and waving his staff at them randomly, as if he had forgotten to do it earlier. Nonplussed, Leandros simply waited until the magic really started, noting that Astinos seemed as bored as he was.

Finally, they were told to sit. They crossed their legs and sat on the hard floor, and gazed attentively at Orestes. The man began speaking, his voice sending shivers up Leandros' spine in the darkness of the room.

"I am Orestes, as I said before. I will teach you the arts of magic." Here, Leandros and Astinos began to perk up a little. "Magic is both a boon, and a curse," Orestes whispered, a faraway look on his face, "it is a tool that you can use to change the world itself, a weapon that you can use to attack and defend with …" here he trailed off slightly, and peered at them.

"How old do you think I am?" he questioned. Even as Astinos seemed to bravely open his mouth and answer the question, Orestes plowed on, saying "I am ninety seven years old." Leandros stared at the man in disbelief. "Yes," he continued, "magic has that effect. Those who possess the ability to use magic suffer the curse of living extraordinarily long lives." Leandros raised an eyebrow, but silenced himself before he said something stupid. While it seemed like nothing but an advantage to have such a long life, Leandros knew that watching as one's family died was painful. Leonidas, the King, had grieved for his father in private, but as an inquisitive little child, Leandros had stumbled in on the King during one of his weak moments. It had been humbling, to see such a powerful, good man wracked with such grief. And if Leonidas himself died, then… Leandros blinked, shaking away the morbid thoughts.

"Now," Orestes said, a distant look in his eyes, "the time has arrived for you to learn how to use magic, how to bend it to your very will and manipulate your power such that your magic is your slave. With time, you shall achieve such control over it that you will bypass the intricacies of magic, and discard the crutches that limit you. With time, you shall be the master, and your magic shall be your servant, awaiting your command."

He had said it with such slowness, with such a dreamy expression, that Leandros quivered in anticipation.

Orestes whirled about suddenly, startling the two children, and approached a roughly hewn wooden box. He lifted the lid, leaning it against the wall, and reached in. When he turned around once more, his arms were full of scrolls, which he deposited on the table.

"Each of these scrolls," Orestes said, "is a compendium of all the words in the five Runic languages given unto mankind by the Gods themselves. As did Prometheus give unto man the gift of fire, so did Zeus give unto man the gift of magic. As magic was gifted to mankind, I gift these to you. You shall need them," he said sternly, gazing at Leandros' crestfallen expression at the thought of _reading_, "for it is through these languages that magic is wrought. You will, over the course of your magical learning, master these languages. Do not fear, young Astinos, these are not spoken languages, only written ones. But you shall master every one of them, and commit each word to memory. Translations to Greek are provided on the scrolls, to help you understand the words better. Be mindful of the fact that these are _extremely_ literal translations."

He handed five scrolls to Leandros, then gave the other five to Astinos. Leandros resisted the urge to crow, for the scrolls he had received were in better condition than the ones Astinos had received. Astinos, less reserved, scowled at him darkly, and returned his gaze to their teacher.

Again, Orestes spoke, his voice taking on a new tone now. He seemed almost normal, yet there was still some aspect to his personality that spoke of an eccentricity that could not be identified.

"As I mentioned, there are five runic languages. The first, named _Anjain_, is the language of attack. The magic of these runes have a simple purpose … to be wielded as an offensive tool only. These are the magics that rip, tear and kill your enemy … or a friend. Be extremely careful when learning this language, the repercussions of using it in jest can be terrible. A pupil of mine was executed many decades ago, for in a fit of rage, he magically attacked a fellow Hoplite with great violence, extracting his eyeballs from his skull."

Leandros and Astinos both flinched slightly at the image that their minds formed.

"The second is named _Lantris_, the language of defense. With these runes, those who wield magic may defend themselves from attacks of all kinds. A pupil of mine was able to save the King's late father by creating a shield of magic to stop an incoming spear thrown by an attacker. He was, unfortunately, unable to save himself, too, as he was struck down… ah, I have digressed again, so back to work. This language is, along with _Anjain_, the most important to a Spartan warrior. As a warrior, one equipped with the ability to perform magic, you will be able to be commanding, forceful, and _win_. It is extremely rare to have magical people in the army… I believe there is just one other. All others that I know of are dead. I was extremely surprised to hear that there were _two_ of you, of the same age, capable of wielding magic. But I digress, we shall continue as planned.

"The third language is _Zaila_, the language of enchantment. This language is used in 'enchanting' objects, which is the art of lending an object properties such as movement, flight or more sinister ones, such as exploding. The Thebans were fond of this, enchanting a pebble to explode when near humans, and magically flinging the pebble towards groups of attacking soldiers. Those with extreme skill in this field of magic are able to use the fourth form of magic to create soldiers, and then use _Zaila_ to enchant the soldiers to fight for them. This is my field of expertise, as you shall learn later in your studies.

"The fourth language, as I mentioned earlier, deals with the creation and alteration of objects. The name of this language is _Uthaila_. With these runes, one is capable of astounding feats, such as turning rocks into spears, or creating a helmet when there was naught but air before. This is also used in a manner similar to _Zaila_, by lending objects physical properties, such as changing the color or material of an object. To give you an example, I shall once again refer to a former pupil of mine. In battle, he was forced to discard his shield, and it was lost in the fray. But with his magic, he took the wooden shield of his enemy, and transformed it into the bronze shield of Sparta. That he died later was a tragedy, for he showed great promise in wielding _Uthaila_."

Here, he paused, for Leandros' eyes had widened with a sudden burst of understanding. Orestes nodded proudly; the child was already so logical in his thought. "Yes, young one, you have concluded correctly," he said in that airy voice of his, "armies, including the Lakedaemonian one, are known to target magic-weilders quite viciously, which is why all but one of my former students are dead. One soldier with magic is worth ten without it… and in the possession of a trained Spartan Hoplite, it is easy to see why fear is warranted. Now, back to work.

"The last language is named _Mahuni_, a language based on protection. The language lends itself to an art called 'warding', which means 'shielding'. With magic, one is able to create an intangible shield to protect a given area. The effect can be extremely varied, from blanketing a room in silence to creating a 'ward' that kills those who try to enter uninvited. This is the one art that combines the effects of _Anjain_ and _Lantris_, for it can be used to defend, and to attack."

Here he paused, looking at them to see if they had questions. Neither seemed to have overcome their awe at what they had been told, so Orestes continued, his voice both soothing and exciting as he placidly, yet vividly described the arts of which he was a master.

"The casting of magic is a simple, yet complicated procedure. As I explained, magic is wrought through the runes that I just spoke of. To explain how a spell is created, then cast, I will use an example. Let us say that our purpose is to create a spell that breaks a man's bone. Now, since we wish to create an _attacking_ spell, we must work with the language of attack… _Anjain_. At this point, we start phrasing a sentence."

The two lads stared at Orestes dumbly. "A… A sentence?" Astinos repeated, looking doubtful. Leandros nodded along, as confused as his new friend.

Orestes simply nodded. "Now, we start off with a sample sentence, something like _'break bone at striking point'_. Now, we translate the sentence, using the words from the _Anjain_ language, and writing the runes in. Now, we have four runes, the runes for 'break', 'bone', 'location' and 'striking point'. We now look at the runes carefully, we _feel_ the runes and appreciate them as magic itself. In our concentration, we are able to see the portions of each rune that are intrinsic to the spell being cast. In the first rune, it might be the semi-circular figure near the top… in the last, it might be the diagonal line. Then, our task is to put those crucial portions together, to form a new rune. They can be assembled together in any way, and the spell _will_ work. But it is only when the new rune can be drawn in one motion that the spell can be cast with any significant amount of power. What this means is that when writing out the newly formed spell-rune, your quill should never retrace its steps. It may, of course, intersect with previously drawn portions, but it may never overlap in a way that your quill is forced to write over the exact path taken by another portion."

Leandros, normally dreadful at visualizing and understanding concepts that were illustrated so abstractly, nodded, surprising himself with the knowledge that he actually _did_ understand what Orestes had said. From the glare Astinos was giving him, he knew that he would have to explain it to the other lad later on, for Astinos was far too proud to admit that he had not understood properly. Leandros, knowing that he would have done the same had he failed to understand, gave the smallest of nods to Astinos, and turned his attention back to the teacher.

Orestes now had a small, nostalgic smile on his face. "Once your rune is completed, your work is done. Now comes the second step… casting the spell. To cast the spell, you first need to know how to project your magic. We will begin working on this once I am satisfied that you have attained a reasonable level of fluency with the Runic Languages." Noting their despairing looks, he smiled indulgently, and continued, "Have faith in me, younglings, this is the path that must be walked if you are to some day become great mages. Now, back to the second step… I shall give you a brief explanation of how magic is projected. You will first learn how to access your magic, and then how to draw it out, and to form your magical aura. Then, you will learn how to direct your magic entirely out of your body, which is the art of magical projection. Now, to cast magic of any focused kind, one needs a 'magical focus'. This is generally a piece of wood, hewn from the tree whose wood is most responsive to your magic. The piece of wood can be short or long, but without this wood, there can be no focused, powerful magic cast. Persians, Thebans and others prefer to use short pieces of wood, which they call 'wands'. Spartan Mages, on the other hand, are among the few who use long pieces of wood, called 'staffs'. In fact, Spartan Mages simply have the blacksmiths construct their spears from their chosen wood, and cast their magic using their spears themselves. A fortunate fact is that even if your spear is lost or broken, using even a piece of wood unsuited to you, you can transform a rock, or a leaf, or _anything_ into a perfect replica of the spear that was lost or broken."

Leandros gasped in awe and appreciation, followed a second later by Astinos. Orestes smiled at them knowingly, as if he had expected such a reaction. _'He probably __**had**__ expected it,' _Leandros mused, _'his previous students would have reacted similarly.'_

"And so," Orestes continued, allowing Leandros a small smile as if he knew what the boy was thinking, "we come to the very specifics of casting magic. You recall, of course, that we had just created our new rune, and perfected its shape to allow it to be used most efficiently?" The lads nodded, and Orestes nodded along with them, continuing "Now, with the tip of the staff or wand, or in the case of Spartans, the spear, the mage traces the new rune into the air, pointed towards the enemy he wishes to strike with the spell. Simultaneously, the mage projects his magic out of his body, and through his focus… as soon as the tracing of the rune has been completed, the spell will be fired from the end of the focus. Now, there are two ways to influence the spell otherwise. Obviously, when casting with something as awkward as a metal-tipped spear, tracing the rune can be considerably difficult. In times like these, a mage is able to partially compensate for the slight loss of power due to the slightly-misshapen rune by increasing his focus and determination artificially. This can be done by either shouting or speaking words that help the mind concentrate on what sort of magic you are about to cast, or by speaking it within your mind, therefore keeping the process as silent as usual. So, in this example, you could say something like _'break bone!' _Understood?"

The two lads nodded, and Astinos spoke up. "Sir, you mentioned two ways of influencing the spell?"

Orestes blinked, then nodded, smiling slightly. "I must be growing forgetful in my old age," he said pleasantly, "I entirely forgot. Thank you for reminding me, young sir." Ignoring Astinos' slight blush, he said "Now, once you have cast your spell, it is possible that your enemy has moved slightly, or that your aim was slightly off. To a _very_ small extent, perhaps no more than a hand's length in any direction, it is possible to make the spell change course after it has left your wand. This is also done through focusing, and by pointing your wand at your enemy. Once the spell has released, you keep the wand trained on your enemy for as long as is possible, and immediately switch your focus to your enemy. Visualize him in your mind, and command the magic in your spell to attack him."

The boys nodded, looking extremely pleased at the fact that someday they would be able to do all that Orestes had described.

The old man told them to stand, and he led them towards the door to his house. "You are to start studying and memorizing the Runic languages, young sires, beginning with _Lantris_. I shall test you each time we have class by giving you a short test. Be very sure of the fact that I do not tolerate laziness, and I do not accept excuses. If, for whatever reason, your performance on any day is lacking in my opinion, you will be punished. If you are unable to answer at least seven out of ten questions during my daily test, you will be punished. Once you have become somewhat proficient in magic, you will begin taking one lesson each week in Potions, with the Potions Master Adrastos."

The boys nodded fearfully, the sudden change in Orestes' persona having had quite a thunderous impact on them. Each vowing to do his very best to please his teacher, they made to leave. Astinos walked out, but then paused to wait for Leandros, who had been held back for some reason. Orestes and Leandros stood in the wide doorway, the teacher's eyes looking vacant once more. His fingers brushed against Leandros' scar, the jagged one on his forehead, and he pulled them away quickly.

"By Zeus," Orestes whispered, trailing off into silence. "Youngling, do you know what gave you this scar?" Without waiting for Leandros' response, he continued, "You have had this for a long time, have you not? You have been touched, at such a young age, by the deadliest of magics… and you have lived."

Leandros, captivated by Orestes' voice, whispered "Sometimes, at night… I see a glint of silver, then a flash of green light. I hear laughter, the laughter of a maniac. Then there is white… and then I am cold."

Orestes breathed deeply. "Death," he whispered, looking into Leandros' vibrant, yet frighteningly emerald green eyes, "you were touched by death. Zeus himself has marked you, has saved you from death. This _scar_ marks the triumph of Zeus over Thanatos… the gods _fought _over you! Your power is immense, youngling, I can feel it even now… you shall be exceptionally gifted in _Anjain_ and _Lantris_, I should think. Run along now… wouldn't want to keep your friend waiting."

He whirled about, and stalked back into the shadows of his house. Blinking, then shaking his head, Leandros caught up to Astinos, feeling somewhat distracted for the rest of the day. The following decade of their lives would see the transformation of two brats with great ambitions into two powerful young men who would stand tall at the head of Sparta's finest.

* * *

"Foolish child!" Adrastos snapped, hauling Leandros to his feet. The lad was _atrociously_ bad at making Potions, so abysmal at it, in fact, that the art was entirely wasted on him. The cauldron he had been working on had melted, and the hot potion inside had spilled everywhere, covering the boy in repulsive pustules. 

He walked to the desk none too quickly to retrieve his wand, and with a complicated wave, undid the effects of the potion. "This art is wasted on you," he said, scowling, "I shall not be teaching you about potions any longer. If you wish to continue _mucking _about with your potions, feel free to do so. However, the next time this happens, I will not be the one to undo the effects on you."

Leandros, now aged almost twelve years old, smirked inwardly. For the past six months, ever since he had successfully mastered the potions that he considered to be of any use to him, he had been trying to cajole his teacher into stopping the potions lessons, and it had taken almost the destruction of the entire chamber to do so. At least, he mused, he was free of potions lessons from now.

He flashed a grin at Astinos, his friend, only to receive a scowl and a glare in return. With some guilt, he noted that Astinos was in considerable pain, covered in pustules due to the ruined potion. The lad eventually gave way, grinning at Leandros, for he knew how much his friend hated the subject. Winking at Leandros, now that Adrastos had cast the same spell on him, Astinos carefully plucked a green herb from the pile of unused ingredients. With a few deft movements, he had balled the herb up, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it flying through the air. Without so much as a splash, it landed in the teacher's cauldron. A few seconds later, the cauldron _exploded_, showering the room with the potion it contained, the same potion that Leandros had ruined. Within seconds, Leandros was once more covered in pustules, as was the teacher. Astinos had cheekily crouched under the table, and had avoided the flying potion for the most part.

The Spartan style of clothing did little to shield their skin from the potion.

There was a howl of fury, and the pustule covered teacher chased them out of the room, shouting lividly as they sprinted away, laughing hysterically.

"Fool," Leandros said amusedly, breathing deeply as they came to a stop, "how am I supposed to rid myself of these infernal boils?"

Astinos smirked, clearly indicating that he didn't care either way, and was forced to dodge a punch. He laughed, clapping Leandros on the back, thankfully in an area devoid of pustules, and replied "You'll have to see Orestes." Apart from Adrastos, whose opinion on the issue the two rambunctious lads already knew, the only one capable of reversing the effects of the potion was Orestes. At least, Astinos thought with a grin, the old man would get a chuckle out of the story.

Leandros scowled playfully. "Well, you're coming with me, then, since you were the cause of this fiasco!"

Twenty minutes later, Leandros was fine, and the two were talking animatedly as they walked towards the training grounds.

"I hear Leonidas shall be married soon?" Astinos inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Leandros nodded, kicking a pebble, "Aye, he is. Next month, if I understood correctly."

"You seem a bit miffed about it," Astinos teased, receiving a swat on the back of the head in response.

"Don't be stupid," Leandros sniffed, "its those bloody Ephors. They're forbidding the King to leave to be with his wife, saying that they need him to start the celebration of the Carneia next month."

Astinos nodded sympathetically, adding a few choice words to give his opinion of the Ephors, making Leandros laugh at the language he had used.

They came across two others, one, Stelios, being a close friend of theirs, the other being a casual acquaintance. The two were comparing the sizes of their biceps, and telling tall tales about how formidable they were.

Grinning, Leandros leapt in between them, and striking a pose, flexed his bicep. Stelios scowled at him. "Showing off? Not all of us were allowed to carry a shield around for our fathers." He pouted playfully, grinning when Leandros lightly punched him on the shoulder.

"You're just jealous," Leandros said, sniffing haughtily, "and you're skinny," he added, almost as an afterthought. "I bet I could wrap my hand around your waist."

As Astinos laughed, Stelios glared, and snippily replied "Always took you for one of those Athenian boy-lovers, Leandros, I'm not so surprised that you'd want to put your hand on my waist."

Scowling at being one-upped, but unable to think of a suitable, biting response in time, Leandros simply scowled. Holding his head high, but smiling slightly as his friends laughed, he stalked off in the direction of the training grounds, his friends prancing along behind him mockingly, gamboling around and exaggerating Leandros' stride.

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing under the hot Mediterranean sun, their bronze skin already reddening under the harsh summer light. There was no room for playfulness here, no room for any banter. In this situation, there was nothing but solemn silence, the heavy breath of the budding soldiers and the clanking of their shields against their spears or armor.

This was the brutal training which all Spartan males underwent, the training that took them in as children and released them as men. This was the _Agoge, _followed by the _Krypteia_. Blood, sweat and tears were the sacrifice as babes were turned into warriors worthy of bearing the _lambda_-emblazoned Lakedaemonian shield, the _xiphos_ sword and the crimson cloak of the Spartan Hoplite. Here, they were encouraged to steal, to hurt – even _kill_ – in order to survive the harshness of the training regime. There was no way of leaving, except through success, or death.

They now wore sandals on their feet, tied securely around their ankles. On their shins they wore greaves, thick leather wrapped around the shin and part of the calf, each side secured to the other with straps. Over the leather was a thick plate of metal, flat and simple unlike those that the _real_ Spartan warriors wore. It extended from the ankle up to their knees, a rounded extension rising up to cover their kneecaps, extending upwards somewhat awkwardly when their knees were bent. Over the thick leather exterior was a bronze plate that was similarly curved and affixed to the leather. On their arms they wore gauntlets of a varied kind, from their wrists to about three inches from the elbow. Once again, the leather gauntlets wrapped similarly around their forearms, with a tough plate of bronze over the leather. They wore leather belts over their upper bodies, crossed over their chests tightly. When fighting at extremely close range once the Phalanx divided, their shields would be either discarded to the ground, or placed on their backs, where they would be supported by the leather harnesses. The only real clothing that they wore was the leather garb that covered their crotch and buttocks, supporting their tender areas and providing comfort. A thin leather belt around their waists supported their sheathed _xiphos_ swords, which hung to their left, ready for a quick draw and a lethal attack. 'Reapers', the swords were called, the guttural slang accompanied by various other, equally colorful terms for the uses that it provided with its quick, harsh, threshing strokes. To hack a man's head off was to 'give a haircut', or to 'top someone off'… to remove a hand or an arm was called 'limbing'.

In their right arms they carried the Spartan spear, scaled down to approximately six feet long, with a deadly sharp spear-head on the main end, and a bulbous tip on the other. The tip was perfect for thrusting through armor and shields, penetrating through thin layers of metal, clothing, flesh and bone with ease. The end was used to eliminate the wounded, one savage downward thrust crushing through bone with ease and pulling out with enough force to tear a hole large enough to assure the death of the victim. The popular name for the blunt end of the weapon was 'lizard-sticker', so named due to the lizard-like motions an enemy made once impaled by the spear. As many a soldier had said, there was no joy that compared to the joy felt by a Spartan soldier when they plunged their eight-footer, their spear, into the chest of an enemy. In their left hand, they carried their shields, slightly scaled-down replicas of the ones that the _true_ warriors used. Made of a thick, heavy bronze chassis, the shields bore the _lambda_ emblazoned across the outside, the inverted 'V' that stood for 'Lakedaemon', the name of the Spartan city-state, and the reason for which each soldier fought. Even though they had been training with these weapons for three years, none would even _dare_ to call themselves a true Spartan warrior… not yet. The shield had two handles, one gripped in the fist, the other being a U-shaped piece of metal that encircled their forearms, gauntlet included. Left handed or not, _all_ Spartans used their right arms to wield their spears, reserving their left for the shield. If preference was given for left-handedness, the usefulness of the phalanx – the pride and joy, the very cornerstone of Spartan military tactics – would be voided.

And finally, they wore the Spartan helmet, a formidable work of metal that protected their heads from damage. From the 'forehead' of the helmet extended a metal strip that reached down to cover their noses, called the nasal. All that could be seen was their eyes, dark and smoldering with energy and anticipation, their chins, and their mouths, lips curled into feral snarls. It made for a startling change, an intentional one. From the time of Achilles himself, Spartans had made use of this, one of their greatest weapons: _phobos_… fear. Where a man could look harmless, even _beautiful_, in the case of some, as soon as the helmet was pulled down over their brow, the smiling faces, the rosy cheeks suddenly took on a viciousness that was at once unidentifiable and terrifying. A simple hunk of metal could turn the most effeminate of men into the stuff of nightmares… and this had been exploited by Spartans for centuries. The _phobia_ instilled in the enemy just by sliding on a helmet added to the warlike charisma of the Spartan soldier, inspiring not just respect for the true skill in battle, but a sense of terror that struck deep in the enemy's heart. Where a glimpse of the helmet, with the animalistic eyes glaring out, was enough to instill _phobia_ in the heart of any soldier, it had the opposite effect on the Spartan warrior. Seeing that terror in the eye of the opponent was enough to instill the necessary degree of _aphobia_, fearlessness, that made up for being vastly outnumbered.

Now they stood, in two rows of six fighters. On either side of this group was a similar group of lads. Each group was its own 'mini Phalanx', designed to simulate the battle style of the Spartans while still allowing all the young warriors the chance to try their hand at each role. In front of them, in the middle of the training ground, was a large pile of wood, the logs lashed together to create a cube of wooden logs eight feet tall and ten feet wide. On each side of the cube, there were eight dummies, made of stuffed cloth with metal armor covering almost every inch of their bodies.

On the instructor's signal, the two flanking groups marched to their respective sides of the cube, so that each group now faced a different set of dummies. Another command, and they fell back slightly, bringing their shields to bear, the sound of the movement blasting across the field. Shields up, knees slightly crouched, they held their spears against the curve of their rounded shields, pointing them menacingly towards the dummies. Each fighter's shield protected their body, but extended to the left enough to cover the man to their left from thigh to neck.

The instructor gazed at them, and barked out a command. Immediately, each group began moving, slamming forward with all their might They inclined their spears up immediately, keeping them completely vertical, and with their shields, rushed the 'enemy', smashing into them with incredible force. Even as the front row of each group shouted "Push!" the second row pulled back ever so slightly, and with quick thrusts over the top of their group mates' heads, planted their spears forcefully into the dummies' abdomens. As one, all three groups pulled back a few paces, the thundering of their backwards strides racing across the field to the instructor.

The attack had been swift, forceful and devastatingly effective, for all the dummies bore dents in their abdomens.

The instructor scowled. "What are you, Thespeians?!" he snarled viciously, "That was the shoddiest attack I have ever borne witness to! Again! Fuck those dummies with everything you have! With Zeus as my witness, if I spot a single one of you turdberries out of order, every single one of you come-spots will wish you had never partaken in the _agoge._"

His use of the word 'fuck' bore a different connotation… not one of the act of penetration, more the act of grinding, like a miller's stone. To 'fuck the dummies' was to grind them, also applicable as a slang variation of the term 'to harvest'. In the _agoge_, one of the most popular exercises that the Spartan boys were put through was the 'tree-fucking', the _othismos_ drill. They would line up in a single file, shields held at port, and 'fuck' a tree until it toppled, the boy at the head of the line moving to the rear after taking enough bruising from the combined line of soldiers. Until the tree was toppled, they would not be allowed neither food nor drink, which would eventually result in a group of battered adolescents, reducing them to involuntary regurgitation and defecation, utterly shattered by the exercise. The light of dawn, rather than bring clemency to the exhausted group, would simply signal the beginning of the next day's training, without a moment of sleep. The _agoge_ truly deserved its infamy as the most brutal system of training in existence.

Again, they repeated the action, the second row determined to make a greater impact to please the instructor. Again they slammed forward, again they raised their spears and viciously thrust them into the abdomens of the dummies. Being only twelve years old, they had neither the height advantage nor the strength to actually pierce the armor, only enough to dent it. And dent it they did, each thrust of the spear eliciting sparks and causing an almighty racket.

But it did not please their instructor. For years, each time they practiced maneuvers in a phalanx, their efforts were not sufficiently good. Rather than inspiring hate for the instructor, it simply egged them on, pushing them to become better. Time after time they kept thrusting, ignorant to the fact that the armor on the dummies was over an inch thick, as they had thought it to be perhaps a centimeter thick at best. Frustrated at their lack of success in pleasing their instructor, the heave of breath before the thrust of the spear slowly grew into a growl, then a shout.

_Hooah!_ _War!_

With one particularly ferocious shout being audible over the whole mess of sound, the instructor's eyes widened slightly as a crunch of metal followed, the unmistakable sound of armor being pierced with considerable force. Less than a second later, the sound was replicated twice more, on a slightly more muted level. Marching over to see what had happened, his eyes widened even more as he examined the set of dummies to the right side of the cube.

The three dummies in the middle bore proper holes in their chests, holes that the instructor had seen previously, when Dienekes and King Leonidas himself had been but a trainee. But to see _three_ of them in one day? One of the holes, ostensibly the one that had caused the loudest noise, was impressively large, even larger than the hole Leonidas had created when he was twelve years old. For a hole of this size, the spear had to have _entirely_ penetrated the armor, and then have widened the hole when the spear was pulled out. The other two holes were smaller, indicating that the spear tip had penetrated all the way, but the entire tip had not plunged through the dummies.

"Who did this?" the instructor asked calmly, pointing at the two smaller holes. The trainees were now standing out of position, staring at the holes, thereby making it unclear as to who had stabbed which dummy.

The raised hands belonged to Astinos, the son of a Captain of the Spartan forces, and his friend Stelios, the nephew of the instructor. He raised an eyebrow, looking at Stelios. "You're quite skinny," he said, as if regarding his nephew properly for the first time, "start eating more."

There were a few snorts of laughter that both Stelios and the instructor ignored, though Stelios had blushed slightly.

"And this one?" questioned the instructor, gesturing at the large hole.

For a second, no one moved. Then, a hand was raised.

"Leandros," the instructor said, almost agreeing with himself. The boy showed great promise … some day he would be a fighter as formidable as his 'father'. The boy nodded, removing his helmet, and therefore getting rid of the shadow over his brilliantly green eyes. The instructor had the urge to gulp, seeing the boy's stony face and hard eyes, but staved it off easily. He was one of those, the instructor knew, he would be one of the _Skiritai, _the greatest Knights of Sparta. And he would be competition to the greatest, someday, possibly surpassing even Polynikes, the two-time winner of the armored sprint at Olympeia. The boy had already surpassed Polynikes in looks, possessing a manly beauty that had already earned him the nickname 'two-looker' among the young Spartan women, in reference to their opinion that 'one look wasn't enough'.He was muscular for his age, even with taking into account the training that the Spartan children were put through. With a thrust that powerful, there was no question about it … the boy would be a formidable fighter someday, much like his adoptive father, the King. Still, he would be broken and remolded, like every Spartan soldier there was. The boy had rested his shield on the ground, leaning it against his thigh, and as if fate had intervened to help the instructor, the shield promptly slipped on the churned dirt, landing face-first in the muck. The look of utter horror on the boy's face almost made the entire sequence perfect.

Striding forward, the instructor swung his fist forcefully, striking the boy squarely on the nose and sending him face-first into the dirt. The audible crack of the broken nose seemed to boom in the rigid silence. Inwardly impressed by the utter lack of even a whimper, the instructor nonetheless snarled at Leandros. "What do you think you're doing, you miserable mound of shit?"

Spitting blood, Leandros stood back up weakly, and responded "Resting my shield, lord."

Again, the instructor swung, striking the boy once more and almost lifting him off his feet before introducing him harshly to the ground. "Did I allow you to stand, buttfuck?" he spat venomously, and received a slightly groaned answer in the negative. Spotting Leandros wipe some of the blood off his face, the instructor growled, flinging his foot out and connecting squarely with the boy's ribs, causing a grunted exclamation of pain. "Who the fuck said you could rest your shield or wipe that blood away, you little arsehole? You think in combat you'll be able to pause to rest your shield or wipe the blood out of your eyes? Perhaps your enemy will wait idly while you pluck a nosenugget from your nostril or wipe a turdberry from your crease? What the fuck do you think this is, a fucking toy? Is the _agoge _just a grand joke to you, you little bastard? Stand and answer me!"

There was no questioning the sudden anger that entered Leandros' eyes. The last word was a venomous sting to him, a barb that cut deep into a boy who did not know his parents. "No, lord," he ground out, rising again, "this is my shield."

The instructor's eyes widened, both from sudden anger, and from a sudden tremor that gripped him upon staring into those eyes. "_'My'_ shield? _'My'_?" Once again he blasted the boy across the face, and was once again inwardly impressed by the lack of sound that the boy emitted, and further impressed by the fact that he managed to keep his feet.

Slightly woozy from the forceful strikes to his head and the loss of blood, Leandros lifted his shield and held it high at port, straight backed and proud, and in his loudest, clearest voice, recited:

"_This is my shield._

_I bear it before me into battle,_

_but it is not mine alone._

_It protects my brother on my left._

_It protects my city._

_I will never let my brother_

_out of its shadow_

_nor my city out of its shelter._

_I will die with my shield before me_

_facing the enemy."_

The instructor nodded in satisfaction, and walked away. "Back to work! You three, flip the dummies and regroup, then on with the maneuvers. Another shoddy display like the one before, and you'll be eating shit for the next week!"

As the day melted into the night, the budding soldiers were given a brief reprieve before partaking in the nighttime maneuvers, designed to help them fight in a perfect phalanx formation despite not being able to see. Leandros stood alone, away from the others, relaxing his muscles one by one as Dienekes and Leonidas had personally shown him. As instructed, he had not tended to his wound, nor had he wiped away the blood that now stained his cheeks, nose and mouth. From behind him, the instructor emerged. He smirked at the boy's broken face, and clapped him on the back, muttering a bare few words before stalking away.

"Your nose was too pretty before, son of Leonidas," he said, "it was a woman's nose. I like it better this way."

* * *

Sweat stained his brow, caused the sweltering heat and the constriction of his helmet under the baking Mediterranean sun. The helmet he wore was a refurbished one brought back by a Spartan soldier after a skirmish with bandits, the crack over the ear repaired by a blacksmith. It was in the Corinthian fashion that had become popular after the Trojan War nearly a thousand years before, featuring long cheek-pieces and openings for the warrior's ears… both improvements being instrumental in the advancement of armor technology. Between the two cheek-pieces was a slit an inch wide through which his lips and chin could be seen, and above lay the curved hole to allow him to see. The nasal extended down just past the tip of his nose, the pointed tip almost gesturing to his bared teeth. 

Aged seventeen, Leandros was now on the cusp of manhood. Standing, fully armored, under the untamable force of the Mediterranean sun, he blinked, preparing himself. He was alone, standing in one of the training fields at the beginning of a curved, sandy path hewn between the grassy field, sword sheathed with his shield and spear held tightly in his hands. A bell sounded, the high-pitched sound indicating the beginning of the test.

_Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!_

Growling, he swung his shield in an arc, battering away the first dummy that swung at him, the edge of his sturdy shield striking the 'throat' of the dummy with enough force to dislodge the head from its wooden body. The second was met with a spear in its abdomen, embedded a full seven inches into the solid wood. He ducked the third, closely avoiding the gleaming blade that passed through the air where his head had been a second previously, and using his motion, spun quickly. Even as the dummy flew past him, he had crouched and spun, already having drawn his blade and swung it ferociously. The sound of wood splintering resounded through the air as the dummy's legs were hacked off viciously just below the knee. Standing and sheathing his sword with a quick movement, he wrenched the spear out of the fallen dummy, then fell into a slow jog as he headed towards the end of the course. Leandros grinned toothily, his natural inclination towards battle causing the satisfaction that manifested itself in the grin that now adorned his face.

_Whoosh! Whoosh!_

The dummies flew at him faster and faster now, and twisting and turning, he undauntedly continued to meet them with exceptional skill, and a brutal lack of mercy. Where most soldiers were satisfied by merely avoiding the blade-wielding dummies and striking them with glancing blows, Spartans gave no mercy. Each dummy that flew at him was met with a blow that, if not fatal, would instantly remove a human fighter from the battle permanently. As another dummy swung at him, he heard the bell ring three times in quick succession, signaling the start of the magical part of this exercise. With a roar of effort, he batted away the oncoming sword, then swung his left arm violently, smashing the edge of his shield into the dummy's body. Such was his strength that the shield penetrated the wood and lodged its curved edge within as the dummy fell. Instead of retrieving the shield, he released it to the dummy's embrace, and with his now free left hand, drew his sword, not breaking his stride once.

Another three dummies flew at him, and he fell into the movements that had, through repeated performance, been ingrained into his mind. His left hand swung even as he leaned away slightly, allowing the swinging sword to slice through the air an inch away from him, then swiping viciously to hack the dummy's sword-arm off above the elbow, nicking its 'chest' slightly. With his right hand, he pointed the spear at the second dummy, his hand moving in a practiced motion to trace a rune in the air. As he projected his magic outward, the rune seemed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second, the shape of the rune immediately associable with the language of attack, _Anjain_. His brow creased slightly in concentration as he cast his magic, but the nasal of his helmet hid that from view.

The orange burst of light that was flung out of his spear-tip struck the first of the two dummies with incredible force, the simple bludgeoning spell tearing through the dummy's stomach. Without the time to cast another spell at the second dummy, approaching him fast, he simply stepped forward and stuck the spear through the dummy's throat, the sharp metal tip emerging from the back of the dummy's neck as it fell limply to the ground. Leandros planted his foot on its chest, and with a tug, tore the spear out of his throat.

_Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!_

Again and again, for the next half hour, Leandros fought his way through dummy after dummy, tearing them apart one after the other. His every strike was lethal, his every spell tearing into the 'enemy' with unforgiving force. On the periphery of his vision, he could see Orestes and Astinos waving their staffs in tandem with Aiolos, the only other student of Orestes' who still lived. Aiolos had been conscripted for this training exercise, as they needed a third person to keep the action fluid. They were furiously repairing the dummies and reanimating them, causing them to approach Leandros and swing at him with deadly sharp blades. This was Sparta… here, when a soldier trained, they learnt to fight for their lives at all times.

Finally, the bell clanged again, and all fell silent, save for the ringing of the bell, which still carried through the air. The last of the dummies fell to the ground, Leandros' sword sticking out of its head, the tip thrust a good few inches into its 'forehead'. Covered in sweat, Leandros retrieved, then sheathed his sword. Flipping his spear around, he rammed the tip into the ground so that it stood, shaking slightly. Orestes approached, as Leandros took off his helmet, breathing in deeply and running his hand through his hair, settling it behind his ears, where it fell down to a few inches below his shoulders. Breathing heavily after the physically and magically demanding test, he sat down heavily. Swearing softly under his breath as his sweat-slicked arm pressed against the shallow gash on the side of his body, he quickly examined it. He had, quite stupidly, underestimated the reach of one dummy, and had therefore allowed the tip of its blade to slice neatly through his skin. It was a minor injury, but it stung irritatingly.

Orestes stopped a few feet away, and regarded him silently, his large eyes peering into Leandros' own. Then, he nodded. "Well done, I suppose," he allowed, then stared disdainfully at the small wound. "Get that cleaned up," he muttered, then walked away, muttering to himself about something or the other. Leandros did not see the look of disbelief on Aiolos' face, nor the pride in Orestes' eyes… nor did he see the grin that stretched the King's face that night, when Orestes recounted the test to him.

An arm entered Leandros' view, and he gratefully took it, allowing Astinos to pull him to his feet. Carrying their equipment back to the sheds, they bantered playfully, then headed towards the pond. It was slowly growing dark, but the fact that it was the summer season meant that it would be a few hours yet before it would be too dark to see. Stripping off the meager clothing that they wore, they dove into the water, grateful for the coolness of the liquid against their skin.

They spent the next twenty minutes in silence, either swimming or simply floating on their backs, until Leandros broke the silence. "Astinos," he said, scratching at the recent stubble accumulating on his cheeks, "I think the King intends to put me through the trials."

Astinos, who had been dog-paddling nearby, now stilled, staring at his friend. "You must be joking," he replied, looking incredulous, "I thought he had no intention of making you regent? After all, he has a son now."

It was true, Leandros mused. Gorgo, the beautiful, wise Queen of Sparta had borne the King an Heir last autumn. The boy was nearing his first birthday, and Leandros had had the opportunity to see the child a few times. As Aiolos put it, the King had not been in such high spirits since his successful return from battle a few years ago, where a coalition of Greek armies had rejected the Persian onslaught at Marathon. That had been a stunning victory, and had served to once again assert the utter superiority of Spartans as a fighting force. Rumors now had it that Xerxes, son of the slain Persian king Darius, sought to attack Greece once more. Leandros blinked away thoughts of war and glory, shaking his head to return his mind to the present.

"I cannot explain it myself," he muttered, stepping out of the water and sitting on a rock to dry himself under the sun's glare. His fingers found the scars on his back as he scratched at a mosquito bite, scars left from the beatings incurred during his training, and from the 'pain-resistance' trials. It was always comforting to touch them… for someone such as Leandros, who had no idea where they came from, it was reassuring to know that no matter what happened, his training could never be taken away from him, and that he always had a home among the Lakedaemonians.

"What gives you that idea?" Astinos inquired, following his example and taking a seat a few feet away.

"I've heard murmurs," Leandros replied as he squeezed the water out of his hair, "and as I walked into the King's home yesterday, I overheard him talking to your father. The Captain asked "You're sending the boy out on the next full moon?" and the King said he would. Of course, there was no mention of the trials, but what else could he have referred to?"

Astinos said nothing, he simply shrugged. Either way, Leandros knew, it was of little consequence. Basil, King Leonidas' son, would be King someday, and Leandros would serve him with equal pride.

* * *

Leandros was sure that his feet were frostbitten now… they had turned purple a day ago, and he had lost all feeling in them hours before that. Yet, he trudged on through the snow, his each gasp releasing a cloud of steam from his cracked, dry lips. Luckily, the wolf skin kept his chest warm, or he would have collapsed by now. What had started as a two-day trial had quickly developed into a four-day excursion, as it had taken days to track the wolf through the blizzard that continually covered its tracks. His mind was filled with energy now, for he now walked through the streets of Lakedaemon towards the courtyard of the King's abode. His left arm was tucked into the wolf-skin, and his right held the makeshift spear that he had crafted out of vines, whittled stones and a sapling, which he now used almost as a crutch. 

Life would have been made much easier if he had been able to use magic, but he had been forbidden to do so, and the King's word was law. It had taken him almost four days to return, four days of trudging about in the snow, barely wearing clothing at all, and forced to keep himself safe without anything but a flimsy spear. Yet, when confronted with the dire wolf, his aim had been true, and his grip had been sure. The spear had struck the beast in its heart, and with the force of his thrust, had torn through almost a foot of flesh and bone to emerge from its back.

Walking with his head held high as the townsfolk saluted or nodded to him, he winced inwardly. The Olympics were in seven months, and as had been made clear to him by multiple people, including the King, he was expected to do Sparta proud again. Having triumphed in four different disciplines among the trials held in Sparta, and having beaten even Polynikes himself, the expectations were high. Given his current state, having starved for a few days, with frostbite having struck his feet, and the cold having induced a painful cough, it would be a few months before his physical fitness would return to normal. And through those months, he would have to report for continued training on a daily basis. The next few months would be tiring, he knew, but looked forward to them all the same.

Now he stopped, having walked through the arch before the King's courtyard. He knelt on one knee and bowed his head, trying to keep his body from shaking due to the cold as the King's squires relieved him of his wolf-skin 'clothing'. Looking up, he met the intense gaze of King Leonidas, and held it, as was custom in this ritual. An Ephor sprinkled ash on his forehead, and Leandros was grateful for the strong wind, for the ash was blown away before it could enter his eyes and interrupt the ritual. Disgusting as the Ephor's presence was to him, it was necessary for the action to be regarded as official.

"My King," Leandros spoke, aware of his teeth chattering as he tried to talk, "I present myself before you, successful in my trials."

"Rise, Leandros, Regent of Sparta," the King spoke, then finally allowed a slight smile on his face. Ten feet away, Gorgo released her breath, and smiled at Leandros. Clutched to her bosom, the Heir to the Throne of Sparta slept on.

Leandros rose shakily, now unable to hide the tremors that wracked his body, and was grateful for the few seconds of warmth as the King embraced him tightly.

"I knew," the King whispered, "when I found you, that you were destined for great things, Leandros. May the gods look favorably upon you. Now, get some rest, you're about to collapse."

Smiling weakly, Leandros left the Royal compound, forced to lean on Astinos' shoulder to make it to his bed.

* * *

Well, there's Chapter 2. If you liked it, hated it, were indifferent... drop me a review. The next chapter will see adult Harry, and will go into Spartan battle tactics, as well as what sort of people they are, on a more personal, psychological level. From that point, we'll move to the arrival of the Persian messenger, and the move of Sparta towards the war. I've already begun writing it, so look forward to a massive, gory action scene in the beginning of the next chapter :). Hope you liked this one, and thanks for all the reviews you sent for the last one. To the guy who asked by PM: yes, I did get engaged, thanks for your words, mate.

I've borrowed a few phrases and some terminology from the book "Gates of Fire: An Epic Novel of the Battle of Thermopylae" by Steven Pressfield. Brilliant book, I'd reccommend it to anyone who liked the movie.

Thanks goes to **Taure** for pointing out the kinks in my magical theory with this chapter. **IP82** helped a ton, too, pointing out a few flaws and giving me a couple of ideas. Most of the credit goes to Steven Pressfield, however - the amount of brilliant detail he put into his novel pretty much convinced me to take on this project.

To anyone enquiring about Chimera, I'm going to start working on the next chapter pretty soon. I'll make no promises about how long it will take to be completed, but I **will** update it. I'm quite flattered by the number of reviews and PMs I've been getting on the subject. I would have started working on it earlier, but I started working on this instead, and I'm excited enough about this story that it got in the way of writing Chimera. After I'm done with Chapter 3 of this story, I'll start with Chimera.

**Read and Review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – The Prelude to War**

It was four years later that found Leandros among the elite, the _Skiritai_. An uprising among the former Spartan Allies, the Antirhionians, had come to the attention of the Lakedaemonian King Leonidas, who rose to the occasion magnificently. Over a thousand Spartan soldiers now marched across the Peloponnesian peninsula towards Antirhion, the ground quaking beneath their very feet. At the head of the procession was Leonidas himself, flanked and supported by the _Skiritai_ – the famed bodyguards of the King of Sparta. They numbered five hundred in total, eight hundred Spartiate warriors following them. Behind the Spartan contingent followed the Arkadians, allies from the noble kingdom of Arkadia. Kinsmen though they were, the bonds of alliances did not serve to befuddle the Spartans as to the worth of the Arkadians in battle. They were crude, untrained fighters in the eyes of the Spartans, lacking the dedication to battle that had made Lakedaemon a kingdom to be feared. Among the Hellenes, and even the rest of the known world, there were no better soldiers than the Spartans, a truth that was universally acknowledged. But where the Arkadians lacked skill, they possessed valor enough to support the Spartan attack and bolster its defense.

Leandros marched behind the king, adorned in full regalia. As a Knight in the Spartan army, and the Regent of the King, his shield bore the simple adornment of a small _lambda_ sign etched under the large one emblazoned across every shield. His helmet bore a scarlet plume, as did those of all the _Skiritai_, matching the crimson cloak of all Spartan warriors. The helmet of Leonidas bore a black plume, crowning the King magnificently. The Spartiate warriors bore no plumes on their helmets, simply a metal 'plume' fashioned after those worn by the _Skiritai._ Leandros stood now as a peer among the Spartans, respected not only for the might and valor in battle that he had displayed countless times during these years characterized by constant warring, but for his achievements in other fields. An accomplished singer, he now sang along with the Spartiates, reciting the war poetry in a clear baritone, bringing smiles to the faces of the veterans, who doubtless recalled the days in which they too had performed for the army. At Olympeia, he had triumphed in six fields, coming second in just one, which he had registered in at the last moment, on a whim. In the armored sprint, the javelin throw, the discus throw, the bare sprints and the long distance run, he had obtained the golden wreath, doing Sparta proud. At the last moment, he had decided to attempt the chariot races, coming a close second to an Egyptian. Among the Spartan peers, his name was now spoken with a deserved respect.

Ahead they could see the churning dust that signaled the presence of the Antirhionians moving into battle formations. A hundred yards away from them, the Spartan contingent came to a halt and split into four phalanxes. Each Phalanx was headed by one hundred and twenty five _Skiritai_, and supported by the Spartiate soldiers. They stood tall, coolly regarding their foes. Even from this distance, the difference between the two armies was obvious. The Spartans and the Arkadians together numbered eighteen hundred men. The Antirhionians numbered roughly five thousand, four hundred. Where the Spartan spears pointed vertically upwards, rigidly straight and unwavering, the Antirhionians were faring much worse. Even over this distance, and despite the roaring winds, the distinct clatter of spear against spear could be heard, as _phobos_ worked its own unique magic, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. Had they been able to see more clearly through the dust being whipped through the air, the Spartans would have spied the damning puddles that now formed between the legs of more than a few Antirhionians.

It was unsurprising… the lines of Spartans, helmeted in the Trojan fashion, with eyes glaring out violently was a fearful enough view to cause immediate regret in the hearts and minds of any enemy.

Grinning slightly, Leandros muttered "Three to one, then. Good odds for any Spartan." Chuckles grew among the men surrounding him, drawing a small smile on the visage of the King. It was unfortunate, Leandros mused, that relations between the two bad come to such a head. There had been a time when Spartans and Antirhionians were brothers in arms, most notably at Marathon, where Darius of Persia was humbled by the Hellenic coalition of armies. Now, the Spartan messenger who had borne a message of peace had returned, having been repudiated by Hephaestus, King of Antirhion. There had been no alternative but war.

A basket was produced from the right flank, each man dropping a twig into it. This was how the Spartans tallied their losses. Each man would use a twig, and snap it unevenly such that one half would never fit any other twig but its counterpart perfectly. They would then scratch their names into each half of the twig, and drop one half into the basket, while the other half would be tied around their wrists. Once the battle had ended, the Spartans would match the twig around their wrists with the corresponding half. Those twigs that remained in the basket signified those who had been lost or grievously injured.

Once all the Spartans had finished this ritual, they turned their attention back to the foe. Leandros stared at them evenly from his place to the right of the King. "Sire," he said, nodding towards the Antirhionians, "a small display will leave us with but a fraction of their army to take care of." Leonidas grinned, the eerie smile flashing from the shadows of his helmet. Across the field, Leandros saw the battle standard of the Antirhionians waver.

Turning slightly, Leonidas shouted out to his men. "**Spartans!"**

The response was immediate. Each and every Spartan soldier, knowing what their King demanded of them, lifted both their shield and their spear, and banged one against the other in one simultaneous _crash_, repeating the action two more times. _"Hooah! War!"_ The sound was deafening as it raced across the muck-covered field. The grins beneath every Spartan helmet were eerie, a glowing white flash amid the sea of darkness below the cheek-flaps of the helmet, crowned by the eyes of those who had witnessed Hades itself, then lived to tell its tale through every brutal slash of the _xiphos_ sword.

On the part of the Antirhionians, the response was slower. For a minute, everything was silent. Then, there was a scream of terror, and the Spartans saw a single man on the right flank of the enemy drop his shield and spear, and sprint away. Almost as if that single action was a catalyst for retreat, ten others imitated him. A second later, it was a hundred who had abandoned their posts, and then it was close to a thousand. Frantically, the Antirhionian Captain signaled his squire, who blew a blast through his horn, the sound trumpeting across the field. The action served to still those that remained, but those who had fled did not even look back.

Raising a shadowed eyebrow, Leonidas smirked. Turning slightly towards Leandros, he murmured "Fucking trumpet was inconvenient, wasn't it?" The response was a muted laugh, and a nod from Leandros. Stepping forward and out of ranks, he raised his spear, flipping it around in his hand to hold it with the sharp end pointing to the ground. With a few running steps and a heavy exhalation of breath, he flung the spear. A hundred yards away, the Squire choked violently as the spear embedded itself through his throat as he blew through the horn. He stumbled backwards, eyes wide, and a gout of blood exploded out of the brass horn still held to his lips. With an almighty crash, he collapsed atop his horn, bending it. The Antirhionian standard, once held firm in his other hand, clattered to the ground.

Silence reigned across the field, a look of unbelieving shock across the faces of every Antirhionian present. A _hundred_ yards… to throw a spear so far – and that too, the heavy Spartan spear – and with such force… it was incredible. The Antirhionian captain gazed back up from his fallen squire, and stared at the one who had thrown it. Even as he watched, he saw the man accept Leonidas' proffered spear, and point it at the ground. A second later, he crouched, and lifted _another_ spear, falling back into ranks. Despair clouded the captain's mind, for the identity of the Spartan was now obvious.

"_Leandros,"_ the captain sighed. The man's reputation had preceded him.

Surprisingly, instead of causing the captain's men to retreat, they seemed to band together in their fear. Without the issuance of the order to charge, the men suddenly broke away from the Captain, rushing towards the Spartans. His cries to halt them served no purpose, going unheard in the din caused by the rampaging feet of four and a half thousand Antirhionians. Sighing deeply, he joined the charge, moving towards the Spartans.

The Spartans, for their part, were ready for the charge. Immediately, the front two lines of each phalanx brought their shields to port, steeling themselves for the inevitable crash of their enemies against their shields. Behind them, the Spartiates stood braced, ready to support the _Skiritai _in case anyone were to stumble. This was where the _othismos_ drill, the tree-fucking, came in handy. From years of slamming against strong, proud trees in Phalanx formation, the crushing of the enemy against their shields was hardly even bruising to them. As the Antirhionians smashed into their shields, the Spartans held strong, absorbing the impact of the charge and allowing it to dissipate through their legs and into the earth. Still, they were pushed back a few feet by the onslaught, but kept their feet firmly, churning the mud under their feet into slush.

For a moment frozen in time, everything came to a grinding halt, the only motion being made by the vanguard of the Antirhionians as they jostled against perfectly still shields. Then, with an almighty crash, the front lines of the Antirhionians were flung back violently, crashing into their fellow warriors. The Spartan shields were immediately turned aside, and the front lines raised their spears overhead, plunging them deep into the chests of their enemies. Despite the armor they wore, the Antirhionian defense was no match for the forceful Spartan onslaught. The spears punched through shields, helmets and armor alike, ripping through flesh, cracking and splitting bone and tearing vital organs. As soon as the thrust was made, the spear was withdrawn smoothly out of the enemy's body, blood spewing everywhere. Then, the first line would move ever so slightly, and the second line would advance through the tiny gaps in between the soldiers of the first line, and repeat the action. Within the first minute of the Spartan assault, the formerly brown mud was soaked, stained red by the blood of the Antirhionians. Bodies littered the small gap between the two armies already. This was the might of the Phalanx as used by the Spartans… it was capable of turning a defense into an attack, and vice versa, within a split second.

The first and second lines now reversed their spears, using the 'lizard-sticker' to eliminate the wounded. With unforgiving plunges of their spears, the Spartans planted the bulbous rear-tips deep into the chests of their fallen enemies, assuring a quick, yet painful death. It was better to so inhumanely destroy the wounded enemy than to risk the chance of one of them rising from the rear of the Phalanx and striking at the backs of the Spartans. Even as their spears were turned, the third and fourth lines plunged ahead, immediately solidifying into reformed lines, keeping the phalanx intact. They, as always, had moved just in time to intercept the second plunge of the Antirhionians, deflecting their spears with ease, and slamming into them with exquisite force. Just this impact was audibly causing broken bones amongst the Antirhionians as they smashed themselves on the Spartan shields like waves upon rocks, and fell to the ground. In one fluid motion, the first and second lines attacked one after the other, skewering the Antirhionians without fanfare. Blood was everywhere, splattering not only the spear tips of the Spartans, but also their shields and bodies, making them look even more terrifying to the shattered Antirhionian forces.

Leonidas and Leandros battled side by side, Astinos and Stelios to Leandros' right, and Dienekes to Leonidas' left. Among all the Phalanxes, this was the one that did the most damage. As the enemy crushed against their shields, they did not falter in the least. With each heave, the enemy was thrown back, and they flung their spear tips outward forcefully, stabbing through the stumbling enemies. For two of the _Skiritai_, this was almost a playground. Astinos had moved back into the second line, and from behind Stelios' shield, cast destructive curse after curse at the enemy, tearing through their ranks with supreme ease. His each curse caused explosions of blood as entire groups of Antirhionians were ripped apart. Leandros, on the other hand, was experimenting.

With a powerful underhanded thrust, he drove his eight footer through the stomach of an Antirhionian, ignoring the bloodcurdling shriek of pain emitted by the man currently impaled on his spear. Holding his shield out in front of him for extra protection, he wiggled his spear while it was still impaled through the enemy, crudely tracing a rune and projecting his magic. The four lines of Antirhionians behind the impaled man had no warning except for the split-second flash of the traced rune in the air before the magic slammed into them. The spell he had cast was meant to deliver a huge crushing force to whatever it struck. Doubtful if it would work while his spear was sticking through the man's body, Leandros had projected a little too much magic into the spell, overpowering it to an incredible extent. The result was a horizontal arc of grey-blue light, nearly ten yards across. The spell slammed into the Antirhionians, decimating the next four lines of soldiers before it dissipated. Blood and guts rained backwards, drenching a further eight lines of Antirhionians, causing hysterical shrieks of panic, and making the rear end of the contingent break away. Unfortunately for Leandros, having a foe impaled on his spear as he cast the magic was a bad idea. The impaled Antirhionian, still gasping in his death throes, _exploded_ in a veritable fountain of blood, spraying across the Spartan front line. Leandros, Leonidas, Dienekes and Astinos, in particular, were covered in blood from head to toe. In front of that particular phalanx, the fighting ceased for a moment, with both sides pausing: the Spartans in curiosity about where the blood had suddenly emerged from, and the Antirhionians in a level of fear that gripped their hearts and squeezed with icy, unforgiving fingers.

With a shout of savage triumph, Leandros pressed forward, stabbing his eight-footer through the abdomen of one enemy, then twisted his arm to angle the direction of the spear as it protruded from his enemy's back, further plunging the tip into the sternum of the man behind him. Choosing to discard his spear rather than spend the time wrenching it out of the torsos of his falling foes, he exploded forward while drawing his _xiphos_ sword. As he moved forward, he leapt over the falling bodies of the two impaled Antirhionians, and flung his shield forward into the throat of an enemy about to thrust his spear forward. The man collapsed, gurgling helplessly as his crushed throat prevented him from breathing and filled his lungs with blood. The fallen man's neighbor then thrust his spear forward angrily, only to have Leandros dodge slightly and move the spear sideways with the greave on his left arm. He swung the _xiphos_ haphazardly, slicing through the man's jaw between his open mouth, causing his jaw to open grotesquely. The force of the blow made the man spin around, and Leandros darted forward, wrapping his left arm around the man's throat and pulling him back even as he fell. He dug his knee into the small of the man's back while pulling back forcefully with his arm, and was rewarded by a loud _crack_ as the man's back snapped under Leandros' weight. Immediately, Leandros capitalized on the forward motion as he fell, rolling forward to plant his sword into the chest of an enemy, and wrenched it upwards as he rose back to his feet, effectively gutting the man like a fish. Rising to his feet quickly, he turned sideways to avoid a thrusting spear, and grabbed it with his free left hand, bringing it down across his knee and snapping the spear in half. Even as his _xiphos _hacked the offending Antirhionian's throat wide open, he reversed the broken spear in his other hand, and without fanfare, flung it deep into the Antirhionian Captain's eye. Now bearing his sword in front of him, he moved back, retrieving his shield from atop a corpse, and falling back into the Spartan line seamlessly. The utter violence that he had just exhibited caused tremors in the hearts of those who had witnessed it, causing them to begin making mistakes with their already poorly-taught technique.

As soon as the first hint of _phobos_ made itself known in the Antirhionian eyes, the Spartans capitalized. With a roar, the Spartans exploded forward, each soldier of the King's Phalanx knowing instinctively to break formation and attack. They stabbed forward with their spears, sometimes managing to impale two foes on the same spear, then drew their _xiphos_ swords and charged in. With their short, threshing strokes, the King's Phalanx immediately tore through the opposition, hacking, cutting and tearing away through the Antirhionians. Across the field, the triumphant roars of the King's Phalanx reached the ears of the other Spartans, who replicated the actions of their fellow warriors. Spears were flung and thrust forward viciously, driving the Antirhionians back enough to give the Spartans room to unsheathe their _xiphos_ swords and charge in. Amid the carnage, a horn sounded from behind the Spartans, and almost instantaneously they had divided, a gap being created in the middle. Through this passage stormed in the Arkadians, crudely waving their long swords and spears, but creating a effective result nevertheless.

Half an hour later, the Antirhionians numbered a little over a thousand soldiers. From the distance behind the Antirhionians, a low, mournful horn sounded, echoing across the field. Immediately, the Antirhionians paused, and the Spartans took the chance to pull back a few feet, placing themselves out of the immediate striking range of their opponents. Seamlessly integrating it into their action, they fell back into their Phalanx formations, and stood, slightly crouched, awaiting the Antirhionian response. The energy seemed to leave them, for their shoulders slumped. One after the other, they dropped their spears, swords and shields, and stepped back from them. They were escorted aside by the Spartiates, who then guarded them while Leonidas addressed the situation. A few minutes later, a runner was dispatched to Antirhion with a message of peace, offering a truce, stating that Sparta was willing to honor the alliance that it once had with Antirhion, if they would pledge to do the same. It was a tremulous peace at best, and the truce would most likely be useless while the Spartans weren't around to enforce it… but Leonidas still held out hope. That it had come to war was a tragedy… the Antirhionians had doubtless used their best fighters in the defense of the city, and those lives, that skill… it was now lost forever. Of course, Leonidas did not consider it a tragedy simply on such a superficial, selfish level. Sparta, while a warring state, was a country that fought for _peace_. They had no desire, no blood-drunk thirst to tear asunder all of _Hellas_ and stain its earth with the blood of its own sons. At Antirhion, Greeks had killed Greeks, and that, above all, would stand out as a great tragedy to have befallen all of Greece.

Leonidas was no expansionist… Sparta was Sparta, it would never include the rest of the Hellenic countries and kingdoms. The truce simply called for Lakedaemon and Antirhion to be allies once more. Leonidas had been almost fanatical about reaffirming alliances with the other powers of Hellenes, constantly talking about the importance of a pan-Hellenic alliance to fend off the imminent Persian attack. The Ephors and the Council of the Elders – the Spartan Parliament – had thus far continued to dismiss the King's sentiments as lunacy, calling it an early onset of old age and senility. However, the _Skiritai_ knew, reports of a vast army being assembled in the East were coming in frequently. As the King's personal bodyguard, the _Skiritai_ were not bound by the Spartan law that made all warlike action dependant on the approval of the Ephors. Thus, Leonidas and his five hundred _Skiritai_ had, in the past few years, fought skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle. In the last two years, the _Skiritai_ had fought eighteen times, and had lost only twenty seven men in that period, a remarkable statistic. During various stints in southern _Hellas_, in Egypt and in Eastern Europa, reports had been slowly trickling in that told stories of a vast army being built by Xerxes of Persia. According to a particularly raucous Egyptian sailor named Bomani, Xerxes' army was the greatest army ever assembled, so large that it drained rivers dry as it passed.

In anticipation, Leonidas had started his own crusade, to unite the Hellenes under the banner of a Common Greek army which would fight the Persians, if the situation did indeed arise. That, however, had been a tragically difficult task to complete. Whether it was fear of the Spartans, arrogance, or perhaps Persian gold that swayed them, Greeks simply refused to work with the Spartans. It was with a heavy heart that Leonidas knew it would be the Spartans, alone, who would face the Persians, so he sought to gain help through whatever alliances he could resurrect. Thus far, only the Arkadians had pledged their allegiance to Sparta. Despite how the Spartans regarded Arkadian tactics and general skill at battle, it was obvious to every member of the _Skiritai_ that when it came down to it, every man would be needed. Each and every Spartan on the battlefield knew this to be true, and rather than occupy their minds with such dark thoughts, turned to their duties with vigor.

With the battle finished, the Spartans approached the aftermath with clinical precision. The first issue they addressed was the healing of the wounded and the tallying of the dead. The basket was passed around between groups, warriors reaching in to find their twig and match it with the one strapped to their wrists. As the _Ephors_ had approved this battle, their sensibilities offended by the repudiation of the previous alliance between Antirhion and Lakedaemon, a small band of medics were able to travel along with the Spartans. They now tended to the wounded, dressing wounds and sewing torn flesh back together, applying _myrrh_ and other herbal salves to the injured areas. During most of the previous battles, only the _Skiritai_ had been present, for the _ephors_ had, time and time again, declined the King's appeal for war. Those injured in these battles were subject to 'field-treatment', a rather innocent sounding word for the Spartan practice. Wounds were cauterized by the burning tip of a spear, the soldier gagged to prevent them biting their tongue. Flesh was sewn together by hands that had once been inexperienced, but had gained skill through years of applying these techniques. It was a godsend that the _Ephors_ had approved this campaign, for the forty seven severely injured soldiers – which included three of the _Skiritai_ – would have far exceeded the number of capable field-treatment 'specialists'. As it was, to save lives, those among the _Skiritai_ now worked amongst their comrades, doing what they could to keep the injury minimized. Nothing could be done for the twelve dead… a remarkably large number in comparison to the battles fought over the last two years, and a testament to the relative skill-level of the Antirhionians in comparison to many of the enemies the Spartans had recently fought.

As the prisoners of war were watched by the Spartiates, the _Skiritai_ congregated around the King and reposed themselves, relaxing after the battle, but ready in case a new offensive was launched. It was now, after the heat of the battle, that _phobos_ made its appearance among the Spartans. They sat on the muck churned up by their own stamping feet, ignoring the blood that still stained the ground. Those who had not had the opportunity to fight, namely the Arkadians, assisted in clearing the field of the dead, respectfully placing the bodies together to allow the Antirhionians to bury them with honor. Sitting there, they felt _phobos_ start to grip them, as hands started shaking, teeth began chattering and faces began looking drawn. Yet they were silent, refusing with all their might to give in to it. Using techniques taught to them in the _Agoge_, they gripped their fear with unforgiving hands, and set out to quell it. One by one, they relaxed their muscles, starting with the face, to return the look of normalcy that they were so used to. This, above all, was the most important facet of the exercises: to return to the Spartan soldier his calm, placid outward appearance, and to guard any weakness from those who would attempt to take advantage of it. They then progressed through the body, quelling their fear. By releasing their fear, the Spartans learned _aphobia_, their fearlessness, which gave them the mental strength to withstand such impossible odds, such constant fighting and stress. It was no wonder that military service ceased to be mandatory once a soldier was thirty years old. There were few who could maintain their levelheaded mentality in battle for more than ten years. Among these were Dienekes, Polynikes and Leonidas himself, and a great many of the _Skiritai_, who usually served until they were physically incapable of meeting the standards required to be among the King's bodyguard.

Leonidas, among the first to dispel the _phobia_ that took every soldier after battle, now stood to address his men. Seeing Leandros fighting against the tremors in his hands, and the quavering in his voice as he softly spoke to Stelios, the King laughed softly, drawing a blush on the young man's face.

"You will improve with experience, son," Leonidas laughed, drawing Dienekes' attention to the situation, too. The Captain's raucous laughter served to only worsen Leandros' blush, for the lad quickly looked at the ground, grateful for the shadow across his face. The King looked away with amusement, turning to address the multitude of warriors who now hung on his every word, having seen him rise.

"Spartans!" Leonidas called, his voice sure and steady, "Today we have won a great victory. Through the mettle and force we displayed today, we have reclaimed Antirhion as a Spartan ally." The men's cheers were raucous, loudly booming across the battlefield. Leonidas nodded, leaning slightly on his spear. The man cut a very kingly figure, Leandros thought, looking at his 'father' admiringly, with his helmet tucked under his arm, and his spear held tight in his grip.

"The Arkadians have been kind enough to provide for us tonight, so we shall eat hearty tonight." As more cheers rent the silence, Leonidas grinned, continuing, "Provided you have quelled your shakes and shudders, Daxos here has invited you all to partake of the feast." There were chuckles all around, mostly from the standing veterans, and slight blushes from the still-seated neophytes. Despite his considerable experiences over the last two years, Leandros would still humbly count himself among the latter. Excited chatter now filled the air as Leandros stalked away with Daxos, the Arkadian King, chatter among soldiers that was all too common after a battle had been fought. The topic of the conversations were everything and nothing, words simply filling the space as the warriors replayed the battle over and over in their minds. Rising in twos and threes as the warriors independently regained full control of their body, the Spartans moved toward the large tent that had been set up at the rear of the coalition's vanguard at some point during the day.

Sitting around a campfire after a successful battle was an experience that was incomparable. Still bathed in the blood of fallen foes, the Spartans mingled on the edge of the battlefield. Raucous laughter and rambunctious cheers tore the silence of the oncoming night, a dozen campfires flinging a hazy glow over the grounds and the sweaty torsos of the warriors. Now that battle was no longer a priority, there was nothing to stop the Spartans from mingling with the Arkadians and treating them as equals. In battle, of course, it was a different story entirely.

It had been a battle that served as little more than a training session for the Spartans, a fact that was both reassuring and troubling to Leandros as he pondered it, having taken the first watch of the night with some twenty other Spartan warriors. On one hand, it was extremely beneficial that the results had been so positive, but on the other hand, he knew that against the Persians, things would be different. He had enough faith in the Spartan skill in war to know that they would be well prepared for any opponent, but the numbers of Xerxes' army that were being reported by various sources had two characteristics that were extremely troubling. Firstly, they were all consistent with each other. Secondly, they were all _huge_.

If the Ephors made the mistake of forbidding the whole army from fighting, then Sparta would be doomed. They would all die. Thoughts such as these were troubling to any youth, but the even _greater _sense of responsibility to the Spartans that had filled Leandros ever since he had been named Regent made him ruminate over these thoughts even more.

Sighing, he continued walking around the perimeter, ever alert. What would come would come… no man had the power to stand against the will of the Gods.

* * *

Leandros stood at the gates of Sparta now, peering away towards the hills. The summer months were drawing to an end… within a few months, the trees would be barren, and snow would fall from the skies, crowning Lakedaemon with its sparkly, powdery beauty. The festival of the _Carneia_ was almost upon them. Indeed, there was less than a week until the _Ephors_ would meet atop Mount Taygetus, to initiate the festival. His gaze fell upon the mountain for a moment, his lips twisting into a sneer as he spotted the arched centerpiece that adorned it, the home of the _Ephors_. Filthy, disgusting creatures, they were. It was a shame that the _Eurotas_ river streamed through the valley near the mountain… each time the Ephors bathed in it, Leandros considered the water sullied for the next few days. Luckily, the disgusting creatures only bathed once a month, on the 'auspicious' night of the full moon. 

A moment later, it was not the mountain that drew his attention. His eyes narrowed as he gazed to the east, seeing a storm of dust approach the top of a hill. Shadows played through the haze, until seven horsemen broke through the dust and charged down the hill towards Sparta.

Turning to the guards on either side of the gate, Leandros muttered "Make our guests welcome. I shall inform the King of their arrival."

He turned, then stalked through the city towards the King's abode. Dienekes fell in step with him, and Leandros informed him of the arrival of their visitors. Entering the courtyard of the King's home, they saw him wrestling with his son. Leandros stifled a smile, remembering his own training with Leonidas. Those were fond memories, especially the day that he had discovered magic. Gorgo stood nearby, leaning against a pillar. Upon hearing Leandros enter, she turned. Recognizing him, she flashed him a brilliant smile, embracing him tightly and greeting him.

Leandros nodded, returning the embrace. "My Queen," he said, in response to her enquiring look, "we have a guest. A Persian, by the look of his horse."

The Queen's jaw tightened. She, no doubt, knew what was coming. Leandros nodded at her, then entered the courtyard, in time to see Basil, the King's son, dig his fingers into the back of Leonidas' knee. The King's knee buckled, and he fell to one knee, laughing. Leandros stood silently, politely waiting for the King to finish instructing his son.

"… honor and respect, indeed," the King said, ruffling the boy's hair. Basil, spotting Leandros before the King did, immediately grinned, and leapt at him, hugging him tightly around the waist.

Leandros chuckled, lifting the boy into the air, grinning as the boy squealed happily. "Lad, you'll have to eat a little more before you knock me over," he said, smiling at the energetic child. The boy pouted playfully, and Leandros set him down. "Run along now," he continued, "the King is needed for a while." Obediently, Basil scampered away, and Leandros grasped the King's arm, hauling him to his feet.

"These old bones," the King laughed, making Leandros grin. "Alright, lad?" he asked, sizing his foster son up, not letting go of the younger man's arm.

Leandros's expression grew a little grave. "A Persian messenger," he stated, knowing that was all he needed to say.

The King frowned in reply, then winked at him. "Well, let's go greet him, then," he muttered, then grinningly continued "it's hardly polite to leave the bastard waiting, is it?" Leandros, in reply, fetched the King's sword from its rack on the wall, and retrieved a sash with which he could secure it to his waist.

Dienekes, uncharacteristically playful as he chatted with young Basil, now shooed the boy away with a pat on his rear, and stood to greet the King. The Captain, King and Queen now walked out to greet the messenger, Leandros walking respectfully behind them. As a member of the _Skiritai_, he was ranked higher than most, but Dienekes… he was the _Captain_ of the _Skiritai_. He was also a childhood friend of the King, and a close confidante. Even Leandros' status as the Regent of Sparta was not enough to grant him the level of honor 'required' to be part of the welcoming party. In entering a conversation with the Persian messenger, Leandros' rank prohibited him from being present among the group that conversed with the messenger face-to-face, though the King had made it clear that he expected his ward to stand with him, an honor that Leandros was glad to receive. Few knew this about Leandros, but his respect for the King and his Captain exceeded his respect for almost everything else. In conversing with Polynikes – ostensibly the future Captain of the _Skiritai_ – Leandros was respectful, yet friendly. With Dienekes, however, he was nothing but professional, feeling even now, as a member of the King's bodyguard, that he was back on the training fields as a youth, with Dienekes present to instruct and correct his every action. There was no grudge, no forced respect… Leandros knew who they were, what they were capable of, and respected them above all based simply on that.

They emerged from the King's home, and met the Messenger in the promenade lined by the homes of the highest ranked _Skiritai_. The man stood in the middle of his group, bedecked in ostentatious jewelry that stood in sharp contrast to the darkness of his skin. Bolts of gold and silver not only adorned his neck and ears, but also pierced through his nose, eyebrows and even through the skin on his cheeks. Leandros barely held back his look of disgust, instead schooling his face into an expressionless stare. He assumed he had failed, in some degree, as one of the Persian Messenger's bodyguards glared at him, shifting slightly.

"Welcome, Persian, to Sparta," Leonidas said, standing tall and firm, somehow managing to look downwards upon the taller Persian. The man delivered a half bow, but threw his arms about as he did so, making him look like he was flailing in water. Leandros barely stifled a snort. He stood a step to the right and a step behind the King, with Dienekes standing symmetrically opposite him, behind the Queen. That he had been presented as the symbolic 'right hand man' was both flattering and terrifying for the young warrior, as it suddenly became apparent to him that if someday he was forced to actually assume the role of Regent, situations like these would be common occurrences.

"Leonidas of Sparta, I come bearing a message," the messenger spoke, his voice unnaturally low, "a message of earth and water." It was obvious that Greek was a foreign tongue to the man, for his accent made the simplest of words sound harsh. Staring into the man's depthless eyes, Leandros was surprised to see a spark of recognition as the messenger looked sideways at him.

Leonidas snorted, and Gorgo smiled slightly. Gazing at the messenger, she said "I hardly believe, Persian, that you have traveled this far simply for earth and water. Do not be coy or stupid; Spartans afford neither of those 'virtues'."

The look of immediate rage on the Messenger's face was enough to tell Leandros that the man had little to no experience with Spartan culture, for he would have accepted the Queen's words immediately. Bantering with the King and Queen while using fancy phrases was proving fruitless, for within the next minute, the look of irritation on the Persian's face grew until those standing around him could nearly _feel_ the anger bubbling below the man's placid exterior.

Surprisingly, the man then turned to Leandros, to reason with him. "Leandros, victor at Olympeia, will you reason with your King? His Celestial Majesty Xerxes has no want to harm that which you Spartans hold dear. On the contrary, he wishes for the Spartans to take their rightful place as the leaders of his great armies!"

The man's speech, while probably delivered in a flattering way in other cultures, was hugely offensive to the Spartans. Leandros stared at the man stonily, but kept his silence, as his rank demanded. The messenger seemed perplexed as to why a woman could speak freely, but the bearer of five golden laurels from Olympeia held his tongue so, instead standing straight-backed at attention.

Leonidas glanced amusedly at Leandros, and nodded towards the Persian, saying "You have my permission to speak freely, son." The Persian blinked, the endearment causing him to look between the two in surprise, as if he were looking for evidence to prove that Leandros was not, in fact, related to the Spartan King.

Mentally shrugging his shoulders, Leandros stepped forward into the small group. "Your Master, Persian," he spoke slowly, "must realize a very simple fact before approaching our King thusly: Spartans are the masters of their own lives, and do not tolerate those who seek to make us slaves or subordinates. Our King is no stranger to such demands from Persians; I trust you recall the events that passed at Marathon fourteen years ago when Darius attempted what you now seek to accomplish. If you persist, Persian, _Hellas_ shall rise together once again and you will see history repeated."

Having said his piece, he stepped back again, falling silent and keeping his features placid. The anger in the Persian bubbled over, an apoplectic look of hate entering his eyes.

"You doom yourselves!" he spat at Leonidas, "If you do not submit, your women and children will become slaves! Your men shall be killed! Sparta will be razed to the ground, and blackened in the annals of history!" So vehement were his words that flecks of spittle were spraying from his lips as he spoke.

The show of disrespect was enough to make every member of the _Skiritai_ tense, though each had the presence of mind to keep their bodies steady, and avoid reaching for their weapons.

Leonidas turned away slightly, looking towards the hills around Sparta that led to Mount Taygetus. A pensive look crossed his face, deep and serious. Leandros was sure he was not the only one baffled by the King's apparent consideration for the Persian's words, especially after the insults directed towards Queen Gorgo, and the threats against Sparta. Turning once more, the King locked eyes with his Queen, a silent conversation seeming to transpire between the two in a split second before the King turned back to the Messenger. Leandros felt a slight spike of jealousy within him, aching to some day experience a relationship that deep for himself.

With a blur of motion, Leonidas had unsheathed his _Xiphos_ sword, and had the tip an inch away from the Persian's trembling neck. The victorious, smug smirk had been wiped off the man's face, true fear finally entering the man's black eyes. Nobody moved, the Persians due to their shock, and the Spartans due to their training.

"You'll find plenty of 'earth and water' down there, Persian," Leonidas whispered, the tip of his blade unwaveringly pointing at his foe. The well that stood a mere two paces behind the Persian had dried up years ago, and despite digging deeper, more water could not be found, as the harsh rocks of the Greek lands had withstood the onslaught of shovels and picks. There was merely churned dirt and some water from the previous day's rain.

"You cannot attack me!" he insisted nervously, trembling pathetically, "No one attacks a messenger! This… this is madness!"

The King raised a surprised eyebrow. "Madness?" he asked, lowering the sword, looking almost disbelieving.

Then, he tensed, his rage pouring through as he shouted "_**This is Sparta!**_" and kicked out with his foot, striking the Persian in the chest with great force. The man's terrified face was frozen in time for a split second before the force of the kick sent his uplifted body into the cavernous well that stood in the middle of the city-center. There was an almighty scream of terror as the man fell fifty feet to his death, the sound fading away before it was finally interrupted by a sickening crunching sound.

Almost as soon as the King had exploded in righteous fury, the Persian's bodyguards moved to draw their swords. Most were lucky to even get a hand on their sword before one of the _Skiritai_ hacked them down and flung them into the well. Leandros, for his part, grabbed at the man directly in front of him, pulling him close and using his right hand to smack the man's hand away from his sword, pulling it out himself. With his other hand, he grasped the man's throat with the tips of his fingers and squeezed, crushing his throat painfully. Pulling the long, thin sword up, he smoothly inserted the tip into the man's mouth, driving it forward forcefully through the back of his head. The man seized and shook, but was unable to do anything other than gurgle fruitlessly as he stumbled back, accidentally pitching his own spasmodically shaking body into the cavern, the handle of his own sword still emerging from his gaping mouth. Five more bodies fell into the well one after the other, falling into the darkness such that all that was visible was the terror in their white eyes, until that, too, was swallowed by the inky blackness of the well.

A look of fury still on his face, the King turned, the Queen falling into motion with him without batting an eye at the violence that she had just borne witness to.

Speaking to the Captain over his shoulder, Leonidas commandingly said "Assemble the _Skiritai_. War is upon us."

* * *

It was a week later that Leonidas was granted permission to scale Mount Taygetus to meet with the Ephors. He had been unsure in the beginning, as some doubt had entered his mind concerning war with the Persians. It was only after he had thought through his actions properly that he had realized that there was no other alternative but war. Sparta was independent, and would _never_ bow down to an oppressor, regardless of who it was. Every Spartan, man, woman and child, would gladly bear arms to vanquish any enemy who sought to rule over their land. Spartans did not retreat, and Spartans did not give in… it was the _law._

He had no desire to come face to face with the Ephors more than was necessary; he would have to encounter them for the celebration of the _Carneia_ soon enough anyway, but this was a matter that was extremely urgent. By now, word would already have gotten back to Xerxes of Persia. He would know that Sparta, at least, refused to bow down before him… and the message would be delivered in the simplest of ways: namely, the notable absence of his messengers. Soon, the Persian army would start mobilizing, and if given too much time, within two months, _Hellas_ would burn to the ground. There was no alternative, the Greek coalition would have to fight the Persians at Thermopylae… only the Hot Gates could stem the Persian attack.

So Leonidas climbed, scaling the harsh rocks of the mountain and ascending to the lower peak on which the abode of the Ephors was located. Of course, there was a footpath that wound up the mountain, and was infinitely easier to tread… but it was a 'sacred' path, one that was forbidden to all but the _Ephors. _It was simply another intimidation tactic used by them to further aggrandize their own self-importance, and to make the visitor physically exhausted upon their ascension to the top, thus making them appear weaker.

On his back he carried a satchel filled to the brim with pieces of gold – the bribe required these days to garner a moment of the _Ephors_' time. Having climbed far enough to access the stairway cut into the mountainside, Leonidas was met by an _Ephor_, who then led him to the dome-covered temple courtyard where the others stood in a semicircle around a fire. Everything reeked of pomp and egotism, from the splendor of the temple to the arbitrary self-aggrandizing ceremony being conducted by the _Ephors_. For the umpteenth time, Leonidas wished that the _Ephors_ had never been given the final say on war in Spartan law.

When the chanting finally drew to an end – not without three misleading crescendos involved that made Leonidas believe it was ending, only to be disappointed – the King stood. Knowing better than to even begin talking before the _Ephors_ had seen their gold, he flung the satchel to the ground, watching dispassionately as it ruptured, spilling gold pieces across the marble floor. The look of perverse delight in the eyes and gaping grins of the _Ephors_ nearly made him lose his dinner. Bravely, however, he persevered, knowing that the fate of Sparta itself rested on the decision of the 'Holy men'.

"Holy _Ephors_," the King began, "Sparta approaches a war more important than any other it has ever faced before. The Persians have built an army larger than any ever seen before, and it marches on _Hellas_ to raze it to the ground. I come here seeking your approval to defend Sparta with full force to pres-"

He was cut off roughly by one of the _Ephors_, who spoke angrily. "Leonidas! Must we repeat again that Sparta does not war during the Carneia? Your incessant claims of this phantom army begin to wear on our patience, Leonidas, and we _Ephors_ will not condone such madness. We do not go to _seek_ war, Leonidas, we merely defend our way of life!"

Leonidas, barely keeping his rage in check, replied "The army I speak of is real, and by now it is assembling its forces to strike at _Hellas_. Within a month, it will land on Greek shores, and given another month after that, it will be at the gates of Sparta! If we do not intercept them at the Hot Gates and crush them with the full might of the Spartan army, Sparta will be crushed. Fighting them on the plains of Lakedaemon is suicide… their numbers will overwhelm us, and our allies once again prove to be faithless cowards. Our only hope is to meet them at the Hot Gates, where their vast numbers mean nothing. There, Spartan spears and shields can overwhelm and crush the Persians."

The arguing continued, going back and forth for a while. In the end, however, Leonidas returned disappointed. The _Ephors_ would not bend… the Carneia had to be respected, they said. No amount of arguing or even begging would change their minds. There was only one thing left to do now. The King and his _Skiritai_ would travel to the Hot Gates and serve as a cursory delaying tactic. There, they would die, the King's death thus assuring that the Spartan army would mobilize in time to defend Lakedaemon.

The King paused, warily slipping his short knife out of the folds of his cloak, eyes staring into the darkness ahead of him. In sight of the gates of Sparta, he knew there was little danger to be had, but awareness was a virtue. Footsteps were audible, then Leandros emerged from the shadows, wearing a dark cloak. The King sighed, sheathing his blade and embracing his son in all but blood. The lad's stony face betrayed his opinion on what had transpired atop Mt. Taygetus.

"I cannot ask every member of the _Skiritai_ to come with me to defend the Hot Gates," he whispered wearily. "Those without children will be told to stay here, to defend the city and protect the Queen. You will be among them, Leandros, you-"

For the second time that night, the King was interrupted. Leandros shook his head, instantly saying "No." Kneeling, with his head bowed, he continued, "My King… father, I do not know why, but an irrepressible feeling has been striking me, these past days. A sense of regret fills me each time I consider the possibility that I might be excluded from the force that you will lead to fight the Persians. I do not understand why, but I feel as if my destiny lies with you, at the Hot Gates. I… believe that if I accompany you, I will learn whence I came from, father. It is a question I have long sought an answer to." He seemed almost apprehensive in saying the last part.

The King sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. On one hand, his son had been named Regent of Sparta, and was therefore duty bound to stay by the Heir's side and guide him, should anything befall the King – and with death appearing to be a certainty, his role was more important than ever. On the other hand, he could not begrudge his son this curiosity – it was a question that would have eaten at him, too – and his son's skill would certainly be of use in battle. Additionally, Gorgo, his Queen, was extremely intelligent, and more than capable when it came to handling State matters.

Sighing, he pondered the two sides for a moment, then turned to Leandros. "Leandros," he started, then shook his head, pausing. "Very well," he said finally, "it is not my place to stand between you and your true family." He said it with a hint of something in his voice that made Leandros blink.

"Father," he whispered, standing and placing his hand on the King's shoulder, "Sparta will always be my home, and yours shall always be my family. I do not seek my blood parents, I do not even truly care to know why I was abandoned. I still hope to die a beautiful death, bearing the Spartan shield. I simply wish to know who and what I was before Sparta took me in. I am extremely grateful for your leniency with this."

Leonidas smiled slightly, and patted his foster son on the back, inwardly reassured. "You realize," he said, cracking a wry smile, "that if I let you come, I'll have to let that little bugger Astinos come along with us as well?"

Leandros started laughing, and the King smiled, seeing the worry in his son's eyes fade away. "Alright, lad, I shall return to my home now. Take a moment to clear your head, then I suggest you do the same." Receiving Leandros' nod, the King patted his foster son on the back one last time, and walked back into the city, leaving a pensive young man behind him.

Sitting on the ground and drawing his knees close to his body, the Regent of Sparta gazed out across the grassy plain, and over the fields where he had played on as a child, then trained on as he grew older. From his pocket, he withdrew a small object, the firelight from the nearby watch tower glinting off its shiny surface. It was the curious metal item that he had been found with, nearly twenty years ago, returned to his possession once the King had deemed him old enough to treat it with the care that the item deserved.

Leandros pressed something on the circular object, and a lid popped open, revealing a sheet of glass over a circular display of some sort. Two small lines were drawn on the surface under the glass, but one seemed to move from time to time, turning itself around the circular surface. The other, while not visibly in motion, seemed to turn around the surface very slowly, slower than would allow Leandros to actually see it move. Leandros then shifted his attention to the small purplish jewel set in the middle of the contraption, staring at it placidly as it pulsed in an almost violent manner, an odd inner light flaring then dying within the jewel. It had started doing so after the incident with the Persian messenger, leaving him perplexed. He had already gathered that the contraption was some sort of device used to tell time, but whenever he attempted to compare it to a sundial, the time displayed by the object was never correct.

He sighed, and slipped the object back into his pocket. It would not do for his mind to be occupied by the curiosities that the shiny thing offered, not when he was fighting. Standing, he walked back to his home, echoing the thoughts that had been running through his mind at Antirhion.

What would come would come… no man had the power to stand against the will of the Gods.

* * *

_**A/N:** Righto, firstly, thanks for sticking with this story. My last semester at college was anything but easy, and it left me with little to no time to write. I've actually been nearly done with this chapter for over two months now, but I just wasn't able to spare the time to get in and fix it up for final posting. Regrettably, I once again won't have much time to write this semester, so I thought I should get this chapter out now, when the work level is at an all-time low. The next few weeks will see things pick up to a pretty blistering pace, and I knew I wouldn't be able to do it then. My deepest apologies: It really is a bad idea for someone to write fanfiction if they don't have regular spaces of free time in which to write, its not fair to the readers. I hope you can take this in stride, and the fact that I will likely update only once every 4 months or so. I will do my damndest, however, to not disappoint with the chapters that I do put up._

_I've been shocked, and very pleased, by the response this story has gotten. I know its a crossover with a 'cool' fandom/movie/whatever, but to have a fair number of reviews that compliment my writing rather than praising the movie is extremely pleasing. So, thank you for all the reviews, and I hope you continue to **Review** with each chapter you read._

_I thought I should also address another issue that has come up in reviews, PMs and forum discussions: my other stories. Yes, I am abandoning Fury of the Hellspawn, the reasons for this have been in my profile for quite some time now. I have not abandoned Chimera, but it **is** on Hiatus - I have neglected to mark it as such in the summary and on my profile, and I will remedy that as soon as this chapter is posted. I **am** open to having someone else continue both of these fics, as I am unsure whether I can keep up writing both Chimera and Death, In Glory with a schedule as hectic as I have right now. If you are a prospective author and wish to continue either Incubus or Chimera, please get in touch with me over PM through FFNet, and we can work something out. I would like to stress, however, that I would not appreciate someone 'continuing' either of these stories without conferring with me, first - I have no interest in giving guidelines as to how you should write it, that is entirely up to you - as I would like to hand these stories over to authors who have a skill level that is equal to or greater than mine. I would like nothing better than to see someone take my fics and improve upon them drastically, but I want to be able to choose the author that does so, not just throw stories that I worked on for ages and put thousands of words into to the crowd and let just anyone take it up._

_The list of people I have to thank for help with this chapter once again grows. **Taure** and **Keiran Halcyon**, thanks a ton for your comments and for pointing out the mistakes that you found. Taure, I hope you like what I did with the ending of this chapter - sort of a compromise between the original and your solution for fixing it. **Japanese Jew** added a few useful critiques as well, so thanks to him. Also, thanks to those who chipped in at ReadCon: **ToeBang**, **HARD WORK**, **highbrass**, **Manatheron**, and of course, many thanks to **Anna/Lady Skittles**._

_Happy Reading._


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